


Shades of War

by maddierose



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Frey daughter, Love/Hate, Sex, Stark sister
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:55:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 22,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24177775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maddierose/pseuds/maddierose
Summary: Lyandra Stark never anticipated that she would be whisked south to fight her family's war, nor to fall in love with a man deemed her enemy. Fire and ice are destined to collide. It is the hour of the wolf. Aegon/OC.
Relationships: Aegon VI Targaryen/Original Female Character(s), Robb Stark/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 27





	1. Festivity

**Warnings: sexual references**

Winterfell was normally a quiet place around this time of year, but presently, it bustled with activity as its inhabitants awaited the arrival of King Robert Baratheon with great anticipation. Of course, while the event was cause for much fanfare within the freezing northern town, there always those who paid no heed to the flurry of excitement that the royal presence would cause.

In fact, the uninterested population currently seemed to consist of the oldest Stark children and Lord Eddard Stark’s ward, Theon Greyjoy. While their mother hurried about the place trying to find accommodation for the two-hundred-strong entourage, Robb and Lyandra Stark were down in the courtyard along with their bastard half-brother Jon Snow and Theon Greyjoy.

Theon was, as ever, showing off his skill in archery by lazily firing arrows at a straw target. He was a young man of one-and-twenty years who seemed to be constantly amused, and had a notorious reputation within Winterfell for bedding girls. Robb and Jon had often jested that Theon’s arrow had a way of always acquiring its target…and they weren’t necessarily always referring to archery.

“Shouldn’t you be helping Lady Stark set the place up for our royal visitors?” Jon asked from where he had perched himself on the fence. A young man of seventeen, Jon possessed the dark eyes and hair that were considered typical Stark colouring. He watched with folded arms as Theon fired another arrow at the straw target.

“Perhaps _you_ should,” Theon retaliated, fitting another arrow to his bow.

“Must you two always fight?” Robb asked in exasperation. The oldest child of Lord and Lady Stark and the heir of Winterfell, Robb was of an age with Jon, but looked nothing like his half-brother. Robb had the Tully colouring, although his hair was so dark that it was nearly black. He regarded Jon and Theon with wary eyes. The two treated each other with equal disapproval, and if it wasn’t for his presence, he had no doubt they’d be at each other’s throats.

“I suppose they must,” Lyandra admitted from where she leaned against a pole, “How else would they entertain themselves?”

Lyandra was fifteen, two years younger than Robb and Jon and somewhere between being a girl and a woman. Like Robb, she had Tully colouring, but her hair was not merely dark auburn like his, but black as night like Jon’s. Despite the fact that she behaved herself – well, _most_ of the time, unlike her youngest sister Arya – Lyandra had a tendency to prefer the company of the boys rather than other girls her age. She shuddered at the thought of being the constant companion of her younger sister Sansa and her friend the steward’s daughter, Jeyne Poole.

“Keep quiet, you,” Theon called to Lyandra as he went to tug the arrows from his straw target, “Shouldn’t you be prettying yourself up for our royal guests, in any case?”

Lyandra merely offered a shrug of her shoulders. “Can you actually hit moving targets, or would you request that your victims stand still?”

Theon laughed and nocked an arrow. “Perhaps you should start running and we will see.”

“Don’t threaten my sister, Greyjoy,” Robb said firmly, causing Lyandra to refrain from rolling her eyes. Sometimes her older brother could get so overprotective. Even when Theon was jesting, Robb took it as an opportunity to put him back in his place. Well, Lyandra supposed if her brother knew the sort of jests Theon made when he wasn’t around, the Stark ward would probably be dead already.

“He’s right, though, Lyandra,” Jon called across to his half-sister, who had leaned down to pet her direwolf Frost who had crossed the courtyard and was sniffing at the hem of her dress. “No doubt the King will be here soon. You should go and get another dress on. There’s mud on the hem of that one.”

Lyandra grimaced. She could be formal and charming when she wanted, but unlike her sister Sansa, she found courtly greetings utterly boring. She would much rather remain in the courtyard with her brothers and Theon than have to go and put on her nicest dress. She had always been rather a tomboy, similar to Arya although not quite as wayward. Jon chuckled as he noticed her expression.

“You look like you’re being sentenced to the executioner.”

“Very funny,” Lyandra replied dryly, “At least no one needed to shear me.”

* * *

Lyandra felt completely in another world as she sat in her allocated place at the feast. Her brothers and sisters might be enjoying themselves, but she felt…suffocated. It wasn’t the presence of the royal entourage exactly that bothered her. Her mother had informed her that Sansa was to be betrothed to Prince Joffrey, who Lyandra had only briefly seen, but she thought him a beast of a boy already.

Now, Lyandra feared the worst. What if her parents decided to marry her off as well? She was older than Sansa; she could already wed. The thought made her grip her goblet with grim determination as she took another sip of her wine. It was a secret that none knew but herself, but Lyandra still possessed the girlish, romantic illusions of marrying for love. She wanted no power or titles. All she wanted was to find the same sort of happiness in her marriage that her parents had found in theirs.

“You don’t look happy,” Theon mused, examining Lyandra from where he was seated across the table from her. “Come on, why don’t you dance with me?”

“No, thank you,” Lyandra replied, more icily than she had intended.

Robb frowned at her slightly, and she wished more than ever that Jon could be present at the feast. The issue Lyandra had with Theon was that ever since she had developed a woman’s body, he had been trying to invite her to his bed when her brothers weren’t around. Robb was oblivious, but Lyandra thought Jon might suspect something…or perhaps it was just because he disliked Theon in general.

“Just one?” Theon persisted, reaching across the table for her hand as if that would possibly convince her. Instead, Lyandra scowled and snatched her hand out of reach. She was in no mood for his flirtations tonight. She knew that if she danced with Theon, his hands would creep up towards her breasts in a failed attempt at subtlety.

“I said no, Theon.”

He shrugged, but his expression was one of mild annoyance. “As you will.”

“Perhaps you’ll dance with me.” It was a gruff man’s voice, one that made Lyandra look up and then jump up from her seat with a cry of delight.

“Uncle Benjen!”

Benjen laughed as she flung herself at him. When she was younger, he would pick her up and spin her around, but she was far too old for that now. When Lyandra pulled back with a euphoric smile adorning her face, he marvelled at how much like her mother she looked – apart from the hair. That dark hair had belonged to his sister, Lyanna, for whom Lyandra had been named and whose spirit she, of all Ned’s children, possessed.

“Gods, you’ve grown, Lee.” Benjen gripped her by the shoulders. All of his nieces and nephews had changed so much. Robb was now the same height as him, if not taller. Lyandra was more a woman than a girl. Even young Sansa was growing taller and prettier by the day. “Next thing you know, you’ll be taller than me as well!”

“Hardly,” Lyandra responded, but she was grinning. Benjen had always been one of the few people who could make her smile even when she didn’t mean to. “How about that dance, uncle?”

Benjen laughed and held up his hands in protest. “I wouldn’t want to deprive those younger and far better-looking than me of a dance with my fair niece.”

“Fine,” Robb groaned, clambering reluctantly to his feet with a resigned expression as if someone had just told him that he was to hang from the gallows. Lyandra, filled with a new sense of energy due to her uncle’s presence – after all, it was not often that he ventured down from the Wall – took her brother’s hand in hers, tugging him through the throng of people and spinning, making him catch her.

“Why do you think he’s here?” Robb inquired as twirled his sister once more, and Lyandra knew that he was referring to Benjen. Suddenly, Lyandra’s ridiculous happiness was sucked from her and she invaded by a new feeling, an apprehension that grew inside her like some sort of weed. Of course – she would have been naïve to think there was not a reason behind her uncle’s arrival, yet in truth she had not been thinking at all.

“Perhaps he brings news from the Wall,” Lyandra suggested tentatively, although in her heart she feared this would be bad news. She glanced across towards where Benjen was involved in a muttered conversation with her father and her stomach twisted even more. Suddenly, all the childish excitement that she had felt at her uncle’s arrival had vanished.

“Fantastic,” Robb sighed heavily, releasing Lyandra with an exasperated expression crossing his face as he observed his two younger sisters – Sansa, indignant with some grey paste on her face, and Arya looking immensely self-satisfied. “It looks like it’s about bedtime for young Arya.”

Lyandra gave a neat shrug. “It was my turn last time.”

Robb squared his shoulders he prepared to confront their unruly youngest sister, and Lyandra couldn’t help but offer him a smug smile. He looked like he was marching off to battle rather than merely escorting Arya to bed. She glanced over at Benjen and her father, who seemed to be growing grimmer by the minute. Suddenly Lyandra had no desire to be at this feast, because she feared that their solemn moods would affect her the more she watched.

“Actually, Robb, I’m retiring for the night anyway,” Lyandra stepped forward and touched her brother’s arm, “I’ll take Arya up while I’m at it.”

Robb breathed an audible sigh of relief. “You are a life-saver, Lyandra. Thank you. She tends to listen to you more than me in any case.”

“You owe me.” Lyandra gave her brother a swift kiss on the cheek, before she strode back over towards the table. Jeyne was wiping the paste off a mortified Sansa’s face, and Arya was trying to smother laughter. Lyandra grabbed her youngest sister’s shoulders, leaning down to whisper in her ear as the girl jumped in shock. “You’re coming to bed now, and if you even try to wipe any of that paste on me, Mother will find out who _really_ lobbed the eggs from the battlements.”

Lyandra knew that Arya could not object with that sort of threat hanging over her head. She made a noise of irritation and wiped her hands on a cloth, before consenting to be led up to her room by Lyandra. For a time, the two sisters walked in silence, but of course Arya was never any good at keeping the quiet for too long.

“Is Sansa _really_ going to marry Joffrey?” Arya inquired, her distaste towards the prince one that was silently mirrored by Lyandra. “He’s horrible. I couldn’t think of anyone worse for her to marry. Besides, you’re the older one. I can’t see why they didn’t ask _you_ to marry him.”

Now that the words were out of Arya’s mouth and in the open, Lyandra could see that her younger sister spoke sense – and it troubled her. Of course, she had no desire to marry the prince, but why had it been Sansa and not her? Outwardly, she was just as polite as her younger sister. Was it because she was rather outspoken and had a mind of her own, rather than being dictated by the latest trends as Sansa was? Lyandra was only a year older than Joffrey besides, so it wasn’t as if it was a problem in age difference.

“It’s not our place to question Father,” Lyandra reminded her younger rather more sharply than she’d intended. She gave Arya a gentle push between the shoulders into her room. “Goodnight, Arya.”

Lyandra closed the door to her sister’s room, nearly jumping a foot when she noticed that Theon was leaning against the wall just outside. She pressed a hand over her heart in an attempt to steady its violent pounding, glowering as Theon smirked at her shock. She planted her hands on her hips.

“Must you?” she demanded irritably.

Theon’s eyes raked approvingly over the curves of Lyandra’s body. Her mouth twisted in disgust; the sour scent of wine on his breath could be smelled even from where she stood. Besides, Theon never looked at her like that so openly when he was sober. He pushed himself off the wall and Lyandra tensed slightly.

“You _do_ scrub up well,” Theon admitted, still drinking in the sight of her, “That is a lovely dress, but you would look better without it on.”

“Theon,” Lyandra snapped, her annoyance swelling to the point where she no longer felt the need to be polite about the situation. She had never really been one for diplomacy, always preferring the honest truth over lies…but despite this, Lyandra had always been a very talented and convincing liar. She could fabricate stories with such effortless ease. But here and now in a corridor with a drunken Theon, there was no need for diplomacy or fabrications. “You are being extremely rude. I think you should go to bed.”

“I should,” Theon agreed, reaching out for her hand, which she quickly drew away. “But only if you accompany me.”

“Tell me, Greyjoy.” A new voice made the two of them whirl around. It was a man’s bored drawl that Lyandra thought she vaguely recognized. Indeed, Jaime Lannister crossed over to the pair of them, the amused expression on his face contradicting his apparent disinterest. “Do you normally have to grovel to get a woman in your bed?”

Theon muttered something mutinously under his breath, turning on his heel and trudging off without another word to Lyandra. She watched him go and turned to face the man who may have saved her a long argument with Theon. Lyandra did not much like the Lannisters and Jaime was no exception, but her good breeding kicked in and she knew that she should thank him anyway.

“It seems you’ve done me a favour, Ser Jaime,” Lyandra informed him in as casual a tone as she dared, “Thank you.”

Jaime merely shrugged. “Well, I won’t always be around to diffuse the situation. However, next time, a good knee between the legs is sure to do the trick.”


	2. A Turn For The Worse

**Warnings: none**

Things between Catelyn Stark and the Lannisters had taken quite a turn, Lyandra mused as she sat on the steps and glanced over the courtyard. Just earlier the place had been bustling with activity. King Robert had suggested a hunt, an idea which Lyandra assumed would allow him to speak with Ned without interruption. After all, it might take some convincing for her father to become the Hand of the King. The courtyard was bleak and lonely now. Lyandra wished that she could have gone hunting with the others, but she knew her father would never have allowed it. Just like her mother would not allow her to accompany her father, her sisters and Bran to King’s Landing.

Lyandra had wondered at this. Of course, Sansa would be going due to her betrothal to Joffrey, and Arya to learn how to become a proper lady, but why would she be staying in the cold north? She loved her home, but she had always wanted to see the south. Lyandra had done her studies and learned the history of the Red Keep – red for the blood of the Targaryen children that were slaughtered within its wall, as she often thought of it. Lyandra could not have cared less about Aerys – he had murdered her grandfather, and her uncle Brandon. It was the children she pitied, Rhaenys stabbed to death and baby Aegon with his head smashed against a wall.

Catelyn had informed Lyandra that she wanted her oldest daughter to remain in Winterfell, for she was concerned that the Lannisters would set her up in a marriage with one of their own for their gain. She had fiercely told Lyandra that _she_ would be the one to approve a match, not Cersei nor any of the other Lannisters. Despite the fact that the two women were nothing but cordial towards each other, Lyandra was aware of the friction between her mother and the Queen.

“Lyandra!” It was Jory Cassel, the captain of her father’s guard and one of the few men who had decided not to go hunting this particular morning. However, as Lyandra clambered to her feet, she noticed that nothing short of panic blazed through Jory’s eyes and trepidation caught its iron fist in her insides.

“Jory, what’s wrong?” Lyandra inquired, never one for procrastination. She didn’t think she had ever seen the captain of the guard so worried before. Instead of answering, Jory merely shook his head and gestured for her to follow. Lyandra trailed after him, but with every step she took, she felt more and more that something was horribly wrong.

Jory opened the door to Bran’s room, averting his eyes and taking a step back. Lyandra entered – and what she saw chilled her to the bone. Her mother was standing over Bran’s bed, crying silent tears and stroking back his dark hair. Little Rickon was beside her, and Sansa and Arya across the room. Arya appeared more in shock than anything, and Sansa was crying hysterically. Lyandra tentatively approached, noticing how pale and pained her little brother’s face was.

 _No, no, NO!_ He couldn’t be dead. Her little brother couldn’t possibly be dead. A cold sweat had come over Lyandra and she glanced first at her mother and then at Maester Luwin, searching desperately for answers. Catelyn was too distraught to have even noticed the arrival of her oldest daughter, but Maester Luwin crossed the room and took Lyandra aside.

“What happened?” Lyandra inquired, her horror growing more as each moment passed.

“He was climbing and he fell.” The maester’s words were simple, but they struck fear in Lyandra’s heart – fear for her little brother. “His legs are broken. If he lives, he will never be able to use them again.”

“If…if he lives?” Lyandra repeated, the sick feeling in her stomach only growing worse. Maester Luwin said nothing more, but suddenly Lyandra understood the situation was incredibly dire. She crossed over to Sansa, feeling like she was walking through a dream, and took her younger sister in her arms, burying her face in Sansa’s auburn hair to hide her own tears. Sansa clutched at Lyandra and sobbed for all she was worth.

Lyandra hadn’t even heard the hunting party return, but when heavy footsteps clattered up the stairs and into the room, she knew that her father and brother were back. Ned gave a cry of anguish when he saw the state his son was in, and Lyandra flinched, feeling as though the sound had rent her heart open. She released Sansa and turned to face Robb, who stood just inside the doorway with a look of complete horror frozen on his face.

Lyandra trudged slowly across to him, as if it were her legs that were broken and not Bran’s. When she reached him, it was like the torrent of emotions was finally too much for her. She flung herself at him, burying her face in his chest and weeping. Robb held her close against him, stroking back her dark hair, his own tears sliding down his cheeks. There was no need for words between them. The solemn silence between them had made them reach some sort of understanding, and Robb held Lyandra as she cried herself into oblivion.

* * *

Lyandra did not even leave her room when the royal party departed from Winterfell. She hardly cared how rude she might seem to the King or Queen. All that mattered to her right now was her little brother. Ned had come to say his farewell to her, her grief mirrored in his dark eyes. He had not been the only one. Jon had also come to say goodbye – he was heading north for the Wall, with Benjen.

Lyandra had not been pleased about that. Jon had been the only one to teach her anything in the manner of self-defense, the only one who didn’t scold her when she picked up even the smallest dagger. He had tried to explain his reasons to her, but they had fallen upon deaf ears. It felt like her entire family was abandoning her.

It was perhaps a week after their departure that Robb barged into her room. She sensed a change in him, saw the determined glimmer in his blue eyes. He marched across to her, business-like, and wrenched from her hands the book she had been reading.

“Get up, Lyandra.”

She was startled by the abruptness of his tone, but she could also tell that he was in the sort of mood where he would broach no argument. Lyandra sighed and clambered to her feet, planting her hands on her hips.

“I’m up. Are you happy?”

“Not particularly,” Robb informed her rather coolly, “Did you know that there was an assassination attempt on Bran the other night?”

The knots in Lyandra’s stomach twisted even tighter at that. Why would anyone try and kill Bran? He was just a child! Unless…she suddenly had a sick feeling inside her. Perhaps Bran’s mysterious fall had not been such an accident after all. Maybe he had seen something that he was not meant to see. The thought chilled Lyandra to the bone, because despite everything, someone was desperate to silence Bran even though he was just a child.

“Seven hells,” Lyandra whispered, “Is he alright? What happened?”

“Perhaps you should venture out from your room and you might find out,” Robb retorted sharply, before he sighed heavily and raked his hands through his dark hair. “I’m sorry. It’s just that…I’ve been so stressed lately. Mother shuts herself up in Bran’s room, and…the man sent to kill Bran scarred her hands when she tried to stop him. The man’s dead, but…”

“But what?” Lyandra persisted, beginning to grow distressed. “Is Bran alright?”

“Yes, he’s fine,” Robb nodded fervently, turning to face his sister before heaving another sigh. “Mother rides for King’s Landing within the week. She believes the Lannisters are involved in what happened to Bran and she’s gone to warn Father.”

Lyandra’s head was spinning and it felt like the secure walls of her fortress were collapsing. Not only her sisters and her father had left, but now her mother was to depart as well? It would only be she and her brothers left in Winterfell. Suddenly, Lyandra felt awfully alone. She needed to see her mother. Robb was right; she had spent far too much time dwelling in her room away from the family that was left to her.

Lyandra drew her window open and left her room, desperately searching for her mother. She found Catelyn down in the dining hall giving instructions to Maester Luwin. Suddenly, all the pent-up emotions were too much and Lyandra broke into a very unladylike run, hitching up her skirts and flinging herself into her mother’s arms. She promised herself that she wouldn’t cry, but she came very, very close. Catelyn held her tight and kissed the top of her head.

“I’m sorry,” Lyandra kept repeating the words over and over, although she wasn’t quite sure what exactly she was apologizing for. “I’m sorry.”

“None of this is your fault,” Catelyn informed her oldest daughter sternly, pulling back and examining Lyandra. In honesty, she had been very concerned about Lyandra’s reclusive behaviour after Bran’s fall. The girl had ventured from her room from time to time, but her outings had grown rarer. Now, it would seem that Lyandra had finally decided she was ready to come out into the world again. “It’s those Lannisters, Lyandra. Your father will hear about it for certain.”

Lyandra hugged her mother tightly again. “Please be careful, Mother.”

“Of course.” Catelyn gripped Lyandra by the shoulders, and her soft tone became firmer. “Now, I know Robb will be running things, but you have your own duties. Rickon needs someone to look after him. That means you have to stop dwelling in your room all the time, do you understand?”

Lyandra’s eyes shone with determination. She hadn’t been there when someone had tried to kill her brother and attacked her mother. Even now she could see the thin white scars on her mother’s hands, and her stomach lurched with guilt. She was a part of this family. Lyandra was a Stark and she would do what was right. She was nervous, admittedly. It had never been up to her to be completely responsible for her younger siblings…but she hid her insecurities behind a strong façade.

“I love you, Mother.” It was the only thing she could think to say. Lyandra was well aware that the friction between them and the Lannisters had developed into something far more sinister. Her mother was treading dangerous ground, and Lyandra could only hope that she would make it home safely. If the Lannisters had hurt Bran, what about her father? What about her sisters?

“I know, darling.” Catelyn observed her oldest daughter. Lyandra was practically a woman grown. She was so proud of her, more than she knew. She was proud of all her children. Although, it was Bran she worried for now. If she went to King’s Landing, who would protect him? She had stationed guards, but even then there could be no telling what might happen. “Be strong, Lyandra. You _are_ strong. Always remember that.”

* * *

 _Be strong._ Lyandra didn’t feel strong. She sat beside Bran’s bedside as she sometimes did, accompanied by Rickon. Her youngest brother fidgeted incessantly, clearly bored and too young to understand that standing by Bran was the right thing to do. Lyandra smiled sadly and picked up Rickon, setting him on her lap and kissing the top of his head. Rickon squirmed, clearly agitated.

“Would you like me to read you a story later before bedtime?” she asked of him, feeling a little guilty. She was supposed to be watching Rickon, yet usually she only brought him up here so that she could keep an eye on Bran. She felt that she owed her youngest brother some sort of compensation.

“The one about the trolls?” Rickon inquired with an eagerness that made Lyandra smile.

“If that’s the one you want, then of course.” It was only when she put Rickon back down that she noticed that Bran, who had been in a sort of coma for over a month, was staring at her with those big, solemn brown eyes of his. She nearly jumped out of her skin and immediately gripped Rickon’s shoulder. “Rickon? Go find Robb and tell him that Bran’s awake. Hurry.”

Rickon might not have understood the importance of the matter, but he understood the urgency in his older sister’s tone. He hurried out of the room as fast as his short legs would carry him, and Lyandra was immediately by Bran’s bedside, fussing about the blankets, her eyes shining with concern.

“Bran?”

“I can’t feel my legs,” Bran informed her hoarsely, and Lyandra fought back the urge to cry once more. “What happened?”

Before Lyandra could express her puzzlement – after all, shouldn’t Bran be the one to tell her what happened and not the other way around? – Robb had swept into the room, little Rickon at his heels. He barely paid Lyandra any attention as he moved to stand by Bran’s bedside, his younger brother his primary concern.

“How are you feeling?” Robb asked of him.

Bran tried to sit up, but his legs just wouldn’t work. Lyandra remember Maester Luwin said he would never be able to use his legs again, and she swelled with pity for him. How was she supposed to tell Bran he’d never walk? She reached for his hand, but he recoiled, glancing around as if they were strangers.

“Where is everyone? What happened?”

“We thought you might be able to tell us,” Lyandra confessed, biting her lip, “You don’t remember what happened before you fell?”

Bran glanced at them and shook his head, and Lyandra and Robb exchanged a dark look. This couldn’t bode well at all. Lyandra hoisted up that placating façade once more, the smile on her lips that she hoped was convincing. She leaned across and placed a quick kiss on Bran’s forehead.

“Well, hopefully you’ll be able to remember soon.”

Robb threw her a warning glance, but Bran was too busy pushing back the blankets and staring down at his legs. He was clearly attempting to move them, to no avail. Lyandra swallowed the hard lump that was suddenly present in her throat as she watched her younger brother. Robb placed a hand on her shoulder, clearly seeing the distress in her blue eyes, so like his own.

“Bran.” Lyandra tried very hard to keep her voice from cracking, and fortunately she won that battle. “There’s something we have to tell you.”


	3. Winterfell's War

**Warnings: none**

Lyandra watched her brother’s steady pacing across the dining hall. Surely sooner or later, the stone would be polished smooth from his boots. Normally such a thing might have amused her a little, but it was what had prompted Robb’s agitation that caused her to be concerned. The letter from King’s Landing was clenched in his fisted hand, and as he paced ceaselessly, livid fury burned in his blue eyes, threatening to send civilities between the Starks and the Baratheons into an inferno.

The news of Robert Baratheon’s death had surprised Lyandra. He had not been a healthy man – red-faced from drink and fattened from all the food he ate – yet she had thought him strong enough to survive another several years as King, at least. Only now his son Joffrey, who Lyandra had always despised, served as the reigning monarch of Westeros…and that was where the bad news got worse.

Her father had been arrested on the grounds of treason to the crown. Lyandra hadn’t believed it, not for a minute. Ned and Robert had been close friends since boyhood, and there was nothing her father would do to insult his memory. There must be some sort of scheme behind it, but Lyandra’s mind was still whirling from the fresh information she was struggling to digest. Ned Stark was a man of honour, through and through. These accusations against him were appalling, and Robb seemed to have taken them very much to heart.

“Don’t you believe it, Lyandra.” Robb threw his younger sister a powerful glower, and as she watched him, she acknowledged that he seemed more the lord of Winterfell now than ever. There was an air of command about him that she hadn’t noticed before. “Don’t you dare. You know Father would never have betrayed Robert.”

“Of course not.” Lyandra watched as Robb paced, but her attention switched to Theon, who was lounging rather lazily in a seat as if the whole thing was some kind of personal joke to him. She scowled in his direction, but he was too focused on Robb’s pacing to notice. “What are you going to do now, Robb? Are you going to King’s Landing to swear fealty to Joffrey?”

Robb shook his head fervently. His blue eyes were still ablaze and Lyandra didn’t think she had ever seen her brother so riled up about anything. She could understand, though. The Starks may be the custodians of frost and coldness, but now there was a fire burning through Lyandra’s veins, the wolf within her howling for justice.

“I made the decision not an hour ago. I am calling in the banners.”

Then the ice was back, gnawing away at Lyandra from skin to the bone. There was only one thing that calling in the banners could mean. Theon had a rather smug expression on his face that she dearly wished she could slap off. Clearly, he had already been informed of Robb’s decision. Now indignant that she had been the last to know, as well as shocked at her brother’s audacity, Lyandra pushed herself to her feet.

“Do you even know what you are doing?” she exclaimed, her voice rebounding off the stone walls and echoing around the spacious hall. Her small hands had balled into fists. Robb would risk war with the crown for their father’s dignity. Of course Lyandra was appalled by what had happened, but would war really solve anything? Why fight with swords when it was easier and less costly to do so with words? “Send me to King’s Landing, Robb. Let me seek an audience with Joffrey on your behalf.”

“No.” The word was sharp as a whiplash. “You are not going anywhere near there, Lyandra. You would really try and kiss the ground at the feet of the so-called King who had our father imprisoned on false grounds?”

Lyandra tried to ignore how much that stung. “I just want our father and our sisters back, Robb. Surely you can understand that.”

“My decision is made, Lyandra,” Robb informed her, sounding more like their father than ever, “Joffrey would only keep you there as something else to use against me. I am _not_ swearing fealty after he has thrown Father in a cell. War may not be the most attractive option, but it’s the best thing for this situation.”

Lyandra heaved a deep sigh. She could see that no matter what she said, Robb had made up his mind, and there was nothing she could do that would change it. Theon’s gaze drifted between them, watching as Lyandra grew increasingly more irritated. She folded her arms over her chest and observed her brother with an irate expression.

“Fine. If that is the game you want to play, I can’t stop you. There’s only one other thing: you are not leaving me here in Winterfell. If you are going to war, I am coming with you. Gods know, someone needs to ensure your head remains on.”

* * *

The cold steel of the throwing knives seemed to bite into Lyandra’s hands. Gods, even the weapons themselves were turning against her. For some time, she had wanted to be able to defend herself, but Robb had always reprimanded her, informing her that weapons did not belong in a woman’s hands. Jon had been more sympathetic to her cause, although he would only show Lyandra how to throw small knives at a target, and even at that she wasn’t much good.

This morning was a chilly one, and Lyandra ascertained that winter was indeed coming as the Stark words claimed. The frost seemed to sink into her very bones, stiffening her joints so that as she threw the knives, her aim was off and none of them managed to hit the bullseye. Lyandra released a frustrated sigh, which came out in a fog due to the bitter cold. She flexed her fingers and leveled her last throwing knife with the target.

“Does Robb know you’re doing that?” Theon’s voice nearly made Lyandra jump out of her skin, and she whirled to face him. It was so early – and freezing, admittedly – that she hadn’t thought anyone else would be up yet. Clearly, she had been wrong. The glower she sent Theon made him chuckle as he walked forward, observing the knives in the target. “Obviously not.”

“Is it really any of your concern?” Lyandra retorted frostily. Honestly, if the cold of the morning didn’t give Theon the message, then perhaps her icy tone might. “Isn’t it too chilly anyway? You’ll catch cold.”

“Perhaps you could warm me up, then,” Theon suggested with a smirk, before he was forced to duck as Lyandra hurled the last throwing knife. She offered him a saccharine smile and gestured towards the target.

“What do you know, dead centre!”

“LYANDRA!” Unfortunately, it would seem that Theon was not the only one awake at such an ungodly hour. Lyandra turned to see the last person she wanted to meet at this sort of time. Robb was glaring down at her from the balcony above, his gaze darting between her, Theon and the knife-infested target. The sort of look came into his eyes that reminded Lyandra of just how their father might have looked before he chastised her.

“Good morning, Robb!” Lyandra called brightly, waving to her older brother. She had always been able to talk her way out of things with her parents, but something told her that Robb might be a different story. “I couldn’t sleep because of the cold, so I came out and thought I would give the throwing knives a try.”

Robb was not so easily fooled. He observed Lyandra with a hard look that told her she wasn’t getting out of this one. There was a sinking feeling in her stomach. He had gone from being just her big brother, to completely slipping into the role of lord of Winterfell. With a heavy sigh, she wrenched the knives out of the target and walked up to where Robb was waiting at the balcony, his arms folded over his chest.

“What is this all about, Lyandra?” Robb demanded, his voice as hard as the metal she clutched in her hand. He was relentless and she knew he would not rest until he had an answer out of her – the honest truth, not some airy story she made up on the spot. “Why are you using throwing knives? Surely you don’t think you’re going to be doing any fighting?”

Lyandra remained silent. Perhaps, if she wasn’t going to answer honestly, it was best not to answer at all. Robb didn’t need to be worrying about her. She had not ever considered fighting on the front line – she was nowhere near proficient enough with a sword. All she had thought about was dwelling at the rear, perhaps with the archers. She just wanted to remain close enough to make sure Robb was alright. It was an absurd notion, her taking on the role of his protector, yet she couldn’t shake it off.

“Lyandra,” Robb sighed heavily. He knew his younger sister too well and although he couldn’t be certain what she was planning, he could tell that he wouldn’t like it. “You want to come and yet you would put yourself at risk.”

“We are _all_ at risk,” Lyandra reminded him sharply, “You, me, Mother, our brothers and sisters. It doesn’t matter where we are, we’re still not safe. Not until all of this is over. I don’t want to fight battles, Robb. I don’t want this war. But I do want to make sure you get home alive, and I’ll do that any way I can.”

“It’s not up to you to take care of me,” Robb shot, a little more harshly than he had intended. He just felt that it wasn’t up to his fifteen-year-old sister to offer him protection. He was supposed to look after her, not the other way around. He exhaled deeply. “Lyandra, please. I have allowed you to come with me on this campaign, even though I would prefer that you remain in Winterfell…”

“I am no child,” Lyandra informed him coolly, clenching her hands into fists so that the throwing knives dug into the palms of her hands. They were cold as ice on her skin, but the blood that started to trickle from the small cuts was warm in the frigid morning. It started to drip, staining the dull metal red.

Robb noted this with slight alarm. “Lyandra, your hands…”

She glanced down with surprise, noticing the blood that welled on her palms as she had subconsciously balled her hands into fists. The knives clattered to the ground, her blood the only spot of colour in any other icy white world. Robb took her wrists in his hands, glancing down at the cuts with a frown.

“Don’t they sting?”

Lyandra shook her head. It was like she the cold had numbed her to the pain. In theory, she should have felt something, even a faint throbbing. In reality, when she glanced down at the crimson rivulets carving a path down her lifelines, she couldn’t feel it at all.

* * *

Lyandra stood at her window as night closed in over Winterfell like a thick, dark curtain. The days passed and with each one, more of the northerners rode into the town, until she thought the walls might not be able to cope with the teeming masses. With them came their horses and their swords glittering bright as the stars. She suddenly felt as though she might be the only woman for hundreds of miles, yet she knew there were others, cooks and the others who would be accompanying the army. The thought didn’t placate her in the least, as she knew she would have little to do with them.

The door to her room creaked open and she turned to see Robb in what dim light the waning candles provided. There was a hard expression about her oldest brother’s face, something grimly determined, and she felt a surge of pride for him. He had made this decision and whether or not he liked it, he was sticking by it. By his travelling cloak and the sword at his hip, Lyandra realized with a pang of regret that it was time to leave Winterfell.

“So soon?”

“It’s best to depart during the night,” Robb admitted, scratching at his stubble, “That way, the enemy scouts won’t pick up on our movement yet.” There was a tense pause. “You should say goodbye to Bran.”

For that, Robb had not been able to forgive Lyandra, and by the squirm of guilt in her stomach, she hadn’t forgiven herself. She had promised their mother she would look after Bran and Rickon, and now she was leaving. Yet her family had been torn apart, spread like too little butter over too much bread. Her father and sisters in King’s Landing…her mother in the Vale…she and Robb departing for war…it was all too much.

Lyandra swallowed hard and nodded, making the journey up to Bran’s room with her heart thudding painfully in her chest. She sat down beside her brother as he stared up at her with wide brown eyes, but there was no accusation there. For some reason, this only made her feel all the guiltier instead of lightening the load. Lyandra leaned forward and stroked Bran’s hair out of his eyes.

“You’re going, too.” It was not a question.

“We’ll be back soon,” Lyandra promised, although there was no real conviction in her words. Robb lingered in the doorway, clearly having said his goodbye to Bran and desperate to be gone while the night was young. She leaned down and kissed her younger brother’s forehead. “Goodbye, Bran.”

It took her some effort to get to her feet and follow Robb from the room, out into the night where twenty thousand men in various camps scattered around Winterfell had suddenly come alive. Their torches shone bright in the darkness, and suddenly, Lyandra felt hoping rising within her, as though perhaps things would be alright after all. The shouts of men and the clattering of hooves seemed to lift Robb’s spirits as well.

“Will we be back soon?” Lyandra asked as she climbed onto a brown mare, a sweet-tempered creature called Delyn, suddenly feeling childish and naïve. Her direwolf, Frost, was running excitedly about the courtyard at all of the commotion, snapping playfully at Grey Wind who growled in response.

“I don’t know, Lyandra,” Robb admitted as he climbed onto his own horse. There was a heavy feeling in his heart as he wondered when he might see home again. He just hoped that it wouldn’t be too long. “I honestly don’t.”


	4. Hunting Lions

**Warnings: none**

It was harder to try and hide her discomfort when she was riding at the head of the column. For Lyandra, it was about putting up an emotionless mask, so that Robb couldn’t tell that her legs were sore and her back aching. If she even looked like she was about to complain, he would send her straight back to Winterfell. Robb had not wanted her to come, and no doubt he would take any opportunity to send her back home where it was safe.

Was it safe, though? Where was safe anymore? Someone had tried to assassinate Bran. That made Lyandra think Winterfell was more dangerous than Robb would like to think. It also made her feel guilty for abandoning her siblings. She had chosen to come with Robb…why? Why would her oldest brother need protecting over her younger ones? She shielded her eyes from the brightness of the setting sun on a horizon as red as blood. Red as blood and orange as fire.

“Lyandra?” Robb sounded concerned as a rider spread orders that they were stopping for the night. He rode across to his younger sister and lightly touched her arm. “Are you well?”

“I’m fine,” Lyandra replied with more bravado than was needed. She dismounted Delyn and nearly stumbled, her feet feeling like they had nearly turned to jelly. Robb quickly jumped off his horse and held her steady.

“Easy there.” A frown crossed Robb’s face as he inspected his younger sister critically. She lifted her chin and looked him boldly in the eye. There was no way Lyandra was going to appear weak. She would not be intimidated by her brother in lord of Winterfell mode, nor his twenty thousand men. “Do you need to lie down, Lyandra?”

“No.” Her tone was scandalized, as though she was insulted by the very notion. Yes, she was tired, but she was going to prove to Robb that she was no longer the little girl he still seemed to believe she was. She did not have be a soldier with weapons. She was a soldier of the mind and for her, that was what counted even more. Wars were not fought with weapons, after all, but words. “Robb, I have already said that I’m fine. Why won’t you listen to me?”

He examined her critically, but said no more on the matter, turning away to give orders to his banner-men. Lyandra’s shoulders slumped with relief as a stable boy hurried to take Delyn’s reins from her hands. Something wet and warm slithered over her fingers and she glanced down to smile at Frost. She clicked her fingers and started off.

“Come on, girl.”

As twenty thousand men set up for the night, Lyandra hiked up her skirts and headed downhill. She had always been rather the adventurous type, and had never seen much of Westeros beside the frigid north. True, they were still not far south of Winterfell, but she hadn’t been this far away from home before. It both frightened and excited her, but she knew better than to think it some kind of adventure. She was a young woman of fifteen now, and acknowledged that war was a very serious matter indeed.

Frost followed her closely, trailing obediently at her heels. After such hard riding, Lyandra was glad for a respite. She took a deep breath, but although her knees still threatened to give way, she found herself grimacing at the thought of sitting down. Instead she took in her surroundings. They might be moving south, but it was not growing much warmer. Lyandra realized that winter was indeed coming.

She felt a sudden pang of homesickness as she glanced out over the horizon with Frost panting beside her. She reached down and rubbed at the back of Frost’s ear with a wry smile, but inside she felt sad. Lyandra didn’t even recognize this part of Westeros. It was all so unfamiliar to her. Now they were going to wage war on the powerful Lannisters, possibly the richest family on the continent…and yes, she was afraid. She thought she would be foolish not to be.

“My lady?” The voice stunned Lyandra from her reverie, and she whirled around to see one of Robb’s banner-men – she didn’t know his name – standing nearby her. She released her hold on Frost. “Your lord brother wishes to speak with you in his tent immediately.”

Lyandra could tell that the matter must be urgent. Many of the tents had not yet been erected and they had only just set up camp, therefore if Robb wished to speak with her it must be a very dire matter indeed. She fervently nodded her understanding and accompanied the banner-man back towards the camp. Lyandra quickly ascertained that the tent with the House Stark sigil flying proudly was her brother’s.

“Lyandra.” Robb turned to face her as she entered the tent, and there was a small smile playing about his lips. She was momentarily confuse, before a cry of delight escaped from between her lips and she found herself hurrying across the tent to fling herself into her mother’s arms.

“Oh, my sweet girl.” Catelyn held her oldest daughter close. Her husband was imprisoned, her younger daughters political prisoners in King’s Landing, and now Lyandra accompanied Robb to war. Both were her children, and they were so painfully young. Robb was seventeen, Lyandra merely fifteen! “Why didn’t you stay in Winterfell with your little brothers?”

“I’m sorry.” It seemed to be the only phrase Lyandra was capable of uttering, repeating it again and again like a mantra. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Catelyn told her daughter firmly, drawing back and gripping her by the shoulders. “You made a choice and now you must stand by it no matter what. Never look back with regret, Lyandra. You must always look forwards at what is to come. The future is what you make it to be, my child.”

Lyandra couldn’t help but smile at her mother’s wise words, but it was a ghost of the old her. She could no longer be the girl who had grinned at her brother’s jokes, who had laughed with Jon behind Theon’s back. War was coming, and it was forcing Lyandra to mature quickly. Robb mumbled an excuse and departed the tent, leaving his mother and sister to their reunion.

“You’re headed for the Twins,” Catelyn sighed heavily. Worry lines had crossed her forehead in the past months, leaving her looking ten years older. “Walder Frey is treacherous. He plays the game as he sees fit and I would not see you become a pawn in it.”

Lyandra was puzzled by her mother’s enigmatic words. “What do you mean?”

Catelyn kissed the top of her daughter’s head and enveloped her in her arms. For Lyandra, it was as if the sudden cold of the coming winter was forgotten. In her mother’s arms, she could pretend just for a moment that she was a child once more, that everything was going to be alright. But once Catelyn let go, Lyandra would have to face the harsh truth. For just the time being, it felt like home.

“I won’t lose you, Lyandra,” Catelyn promised her fiercely, “I’m not letting you go.”

* * *

Robb was in a foul mood. Most would have left him be to brood, but Lyandra was one of the few who dared disturb him when in his most sour state of mind. Of course, she knew exactly what had brought this mood about. Catelyn had insisted that she had been the one to ride to the Twins and negotiate with Walder Frey. The terms she had returned with had been…difficult, to say the least. Robb had probably been impacted the most by a particular term that had restricted his independence. Now, Lyandra sought him out to offer him her normal comfort – blunt words and a bear hug.

“You know, you can sit and stare out at the water all day, it’s not going to get you across.”

Lyandra sat beside her brother, who didn’t as much as look at her. His expression was impassive, but having known Robb all her life, she could see the despair in his blue eyes. It was too early for her to reach out yet. He would only push her away.

“Leave me be, Lyandra.”

“No.” She raked a hand through her dark hair. “Robb, I know it must be hard. You have to marry a Frey girl now…”

“Hard?” He turned to glower at her and all it was once it was like ice and fire in those blue eyes. “What do you know about hard, Lyandra? What I don’t understand is why it wasn’t you who was promised.”

Robb’s words stung her like a slap to the face and he immediately felt remorseful as he saw the hurt in her eyes. He hadn’t meant to take his frustration out on Lyandra. She stared at her hands, acknowledging that Robb was right. Sansa had been betrothed to Joffrey. Now Robb and Arya were betrothed to Frey children. What about Lyandra? Why had Catelyn not promised her to anyone? Was she unworthy?

“She loves you the best.” The words were cold as flint out of Robb’s mouth. “She always has. She wants to keep you by her side. If any of us were to marry for love, it’s you. Why do you think she hasn’t had you betrothed, Lyandra? Mother understands that most marriages are for benefit, and she sees your spirit, and it would break her heart to marry you off to a man for whom you would be just a prize.”

“That’s not true,” Lyandra protested, but only half-heartedly. What Robb said did make sense, although she wished to believe otherwise. “She loves us all.”

Robb remained in silence for a few moments. Lyandra was by no means naïve. She knew more than a girl her age probably should. She could manipulate and she could lie. She could earn favour. But more than that, there was a part of their father’s dead siblings in her, the hotheadedness, the fire that refused to be put out by winter’s chill.

“What do you expect me to do?” Lyandra asked quietly, but there was clearly irritation in her voice. “Offer myself up in your place?”

“No.” Robb shook his head vigorously. “You know I would never ask nor expect that of you. If I must marry for duty, so be it. Don’t condemn yourself to that if you don’t have to.” There was a brief silence before he spoke again. “I’m sending two thousand men to their deaths.”

A frown shadowed Lyandra’s face. “What are you talking about?”

There was too much she didn’t understand. Robb and her mother spoke in riddles, of things they didn’t want her to know about. It frustrated her to no end. War was only gilded words and bloodstained swords, and she desired no part in it.

“A decoy.” Robb’s tone was flat now, his eyes miserable. “We cannot fight both Tywin and Jaime. A force of two thousand men will detach from the main army, and…”

“What?!” Lyandra stood to her feet immediately, small hands clenching into fists. “Robb, that is insane! Whose idea was this? One of your banner-men? Lord Umber, perhaps?”

“Don’t mock my men,” Robb snapped at her, rising to his feet also, “They do what I ask of them, why won’t you? It’s not your decision to make, and in any case, it has been made and there is nothing more you can do.”

“You’re killing them!” Lyandra exclaimed. She was unable to understand how this was necessity. Why were these men even going to listen to her foolish, green brother? Robb had never known war. He didn’t know what he was talking about. “You know this is wrong. I can see it in your face. You know.”

“There is no other way!” Robb retaliated, emphasizing each word. “Why is every decision I make wrong in your eyes?”

Lyandra made a noise of frustration and sat back down heavily. She raked her fingers through the dark mess of her hair, tangling them. She felt so very lost. She had seen no battles lost or battles won, so why did it already feel as though they were losing? Robb watched her for a few moments, his face the cool and dispassionate mask of the lord of Winterfell. Then he heaved a sigh and crouched beside her.

“Don’t you see?” Lyandra could hear the despair in his voice now. “Lyandra, there’s nothing else I can do. For many to live, some must die.”

There was no response from his younger sister, and Robb tentatively put his arms around her and drew her to him. Lyandra shoved him away and clambered to her feet. Her blue eyes were alight with fury…but no tears. Robb knew that his sister was the sort who hardly ever shed tears, but he had expected more emotion considering her passionate protests.

“Peace is an illusion, Lyandra,” he informed her, the brutal reality starting to sink in as he got to his feet and walked away.

* * *

“Keep still,” Lyandra instructed irritably as she fastened the straps of her brother’s armour. Robb grimaced slightly at the tightness. He was only used to the practise armour that he had worn as a boy in the courtyard, training with wooden swords. But he was a boy no longer. He was a man grown and the weight of the armour on his shoulders was just another layer over the top of all the responsibilities. The burden of the armies of the north was his to bear now.

“Must it be so tight?” Robb inquired. His sister did not reply. The drums of war were already beating a steady rhythm in her heart, and there was an uneasy feeling in her stomach. Her brother turned to face her and in the dim candlelight, he could suddenly pass for years older. There was a grim light in his eyes, a determined set to his mouth. She examined with admiration and a wave of trepidation rolled over her and held her fast in its clutches. Her brave older brother…what if he died on the battlefield?

It was a notion she couldn’t bear. Her family seemed to be crumbling, tearing itself apart. She wondered if it had been like this before, after Aerys had killed Brandon and Rickard. Lyandra watched her brother as he sheathed his sword, still remembering the days when he had practised in the courtyard with Jon or Theon. Those had been child’s games, however, and they were children no longer.

Robb noticed the look in his sister’s eyes and took her face in his hands, leaning across to kiss her forehead.

“Don’t worry so much. We’ll be fine, Lyandra.”

“And your other two thousand men?” She asked softly, and immediately regretted her words when Robb averted his eyes, trying to conceal his guilt. However the moment he looked back up at her, those blue eyes were like cold steel.

“We’ve already discussed this, Lyandra. Your job now is to remain here, with Mother and the few left behind.”

Lyandra inclined her head, but already, her heart rebelled. The battle had been drawing ever closer, and she had been plotting the entire time. She knew she was no warrior, and she didn’t seek the battlefield. Her only desire was to see her brother return alive. She didn’t think she could bear to watch him fall and never rise, blood staining his body, to have to be transported north and put in a grave where he would never see the sun. The thought made her throat constrict.

“Keep safe,” Robb told his younger sister, sweeping her into a tight embrace. It lasted only a moment before his hand was on the hilt of his sword once more, and he ducked under the tent flap and vanished into the night. It was not silent. Lyandra could hear the horses whinnying and the men shouting to one another. It was the noise that brought her hope of being undetected.

She yanked forth her pillow and grabbed the three silver throwing knives that glimmered, a pale malice in the moonlight. War was not for women, she had been told that throughout her life, but she was tired of hearing what women could and could not do. She had no intention of fighting. Lyandra would dwell on the sidelines. All she needed do was watch. The thought of massacre made her stomach twist, like a rope tightening and tying inside her, but she pushed it away. She could do this. She was strong.

Stowing the knives down her bodice – a woman’s best hiding place – Lyandra snatched up a crossbow from the weapons rack as she exited the tent. She had a slight idea how to use it, and she supposed that she might well need to. Grabbing a small stash of arrows, she skirted through a camp of men to whom she might well be invisible, mounting Delyn. Tonight would no doubt be her biggest challenge – if she survived it.


	5. The Cold Rises

**Warnings: none**

The battlefield was strewn with motionless bodies as Lyandra trailed over the grass with Frost at her heels. It had been a massacre; the Lannister camp had been attacked in the dead of night and not event the great Jaime Lannister himself had been able to prevent it. He had been captured and was to be dragged back to the Stark camp in chains. Lyandra could hardly say that this made her feel victorious, or would even make her sleep easier at night.

Lyandra had never seen death before. Blood, there had been plenty. She was often the ones her younger brothers would come to when they had cuts and bruises. Sometimes even Jon would call on her to look at his injuries, rather than going to Maester Luwin and risking being reprimanded. The memories made Lyandra miss him more than ever. She was no maester herself, but she did know how to fix wounds, to an extent. Fixing wounds was the easy part. Not being able to fix them was harder.

When the battle was done, Lyandra had stopped dwelling on the fringes and immediately set about taking care of the wounded. She had removed her helm and although the Stark soldiers had quietened as they saw her dark hair spill to her waist, realized that Robb’s sister had accompanied them to the battlefield, not a word was said on the matter. She had not seen Robb himself yet, and that was a small mercy.

The hardest part, Lyandra surmised, was looking upon an injured soldier and knowing that there was nothing you could do to help them except put them out of their misery. She had never imagined herself to become a killer. Yet when she had noticed a young man, perhaps the same age as her brother, choking on his own blood from a punctured lung, there had not been a choice. She had swept her dagger across his throat in one swift, savage stroke, ending his life.

Lyandra did not know how much time had passed since the battle had concluded. It felt like hours, but slowly, the wailing chorus of the dying had subsided. It made her sick to the stomach to listen to their howls.

* * *

Robb had been pacing for minutes now. Lyandra leaned against the table in a resigned fashion, wondering when the actual rant would begin. She could tell her brother was irate that she had come to battle, even if she hadn’t technically participated. She also supposed she should be wary of what her mother would say when she was informed.

“What were you thinking?” Robb whirled on her, his blue eyes flashing. Lyandra immediately straightened up, watching as he stalked over to her. “You are fifteen years old, Lyandra! You don’t even know how to use a sword, or a bow! What difference did you think you would have made, except having me worried sick?”

“Someone has to watch your back,” Lyandra murmured in response, but after the battle was done, this seemed to be a very weak excuse indeed.

“I had eighteen thousand men to watch my back!” Robb exclaimed, “Not to mention that we managed to capture Jaime Lannister.”

Lyandra remained silent as he vented. No doubt after a day of spilling blood and knowing that two thousand men were dead because of his orders, Robb just needed to get some of his frustration out of his system. Her face was an impassive mask as he continued to snap at her, until eventually calmed and heaved a sigh, his shoulders slumping. Lyandra waited until she was sure he was done, before she walked over and embraced him.

“I know this has been hard for you,” she said, propping her chin on his shoulder, “I know that you never wanted any of this.”

Robb nudged her away from him, clearing his throat like he was embarrassed by her affections. Lyandra was a little hurt by this, but quickly concealed it. Her brother was trying to act as though he was a man, but he had only won a single battle. The war was far from over, as he had already affirmed to the men.

* * *

The furs that covered her bed were warm and thick, yet still Lyandra shivered from a cold that seemed to have wedged itself inside her. She knew what today was, but after all that had happened, her sixteenth name-day held no significance at all. The letter from King’s Landing was etched into her being, the words burned into her mind. Perhaps if she stayed curled up under the furs for long enough, when she dragged herself out it may all have been a bad dream.

Her father was dead. It was still so surreal, so hard to come to terms with. Joffrey had condemned him for some treason Lyandra was sure did not exist, and so the executioner had taken off Ned Stark’s head. The banner-men had been torn over whom to swear fealty to, and had so named a King of their own – Robb Stark. Her brother was now a King, she a Princess. It was a child’s dream, but it was hollow and twisted because of the circumstances, and Lyandra was not a little girl any longer.

Perhaps she should not have stored her faith in the old gods after all. Maybe there weren’t any gods. Lyandra was not sure what to believe, for surely no god would have allowed an honourable man such as her father to die like that. She ached inside because of it, had cried until her eyes were red and sore. It was a physical pain inside that she had not yet come to terms with.

A sudden movement caught Lyandra’s attention. She rolled onto her side to see her mother entering the tent. There were hard lines around Catelyn’s eyes and mouth, and it hurt Lyandra to see that her father’s death had made her mother so much older. There was a bowl in her hands, steaming with something hot. When she sat down on the end of the bed, Lyandra could see that it was chicken stew – her favourite. She swallowed the hard lump in her throat.

“I brought you some food.” Catelyn’s voice was hoarse as she held out the bowl of soup to Lyandra. “It was made up specially.”

Lyandra made no move to sit up. She just stared up at the roof of her tent. How could her mother be acting so normally? How had the world not gone to pieces because of Ned Stark’s death? Lyandra had not seen her brother or her mother since reading the letter. She had excused herself to her tent and had remained there for days, only moving when the camp packed up and shifted another few miles south.

“I’m not hungry.”

“You will eat, Lyandra.” A steely note entered Catelyn’s tone now, as she watched her daughter sit up ever so slightly, stirring under the thick mound of furs that covered her. “You have not left your tent for days, and I can tell that you haven’t been eating. You must have something, please.”

“No.” The word was flat and emotionless.

Catelyn sighed in frustration. “Lyandra…”

“I _don’t want it_!” Lyandra flung her hand out, knocking the bowl of stew from her mother’s hands. It hit the ground with a dull thud, and the dirt greedily began to suck up the moisture from it.

Then she was crying before she even knew what was happening. Catelyn’s shock quickly transformed into sorrow, and she held her daughter close, stroking back her hair. It reminded Lyandra of when she had been a small child and she had sought her mother for comfort. Now she felt so very little again, burying her face in Catelyn’s shoulder, tears running down her face from swollen eyes.

“He didn’t do anything wrong.” Lyandra’s voice was hoarse, her throat raw from choking out sobs. She knew that being right was irrelevant. If the King said something was treason, then it was. The King was Joffrey, so her father could have done anything. Lyandra remembered Joffrey all too well. The slightest wrong move…well.

“He would want you to be happy,” Catelyn assured her fiercely. “It is your sixteenth name-day, you are a woman grown. Besides, we bow to a new King now. Robb is our King.”

Another thing that struck Lyandra hard was the knowledge that her two younger sisters were held political prisoners in the capital. Sweet Sansa and fiery Arya…she hoped that they could survive in the clutches of the Lannisters. Her father had been right to mistrust them, Lyandra thought bitterly, although it did little good now. She sat up straighter, her back aching and her eyes sore.

“You should go see your brother,” Catelyn said in a softer voice, watching her daughter anxiously. The girl was hardly eating or sleeping. She appeared to have lost some weight even though it had been mere days since the news of Ned’s death. “Robb is concerned about you.”

“Robb has more pressing matters than me right now,” Lyandra murmured, but she stood nonetheless, straightening out her crumpled dress, tightening the laces so that she would appear presentable. Robb would always be her older brother, but she was well aware that he was now her King as well. She needed to treat him as such. This was no boy playing a war game, not any longer.

“Family, duty, honour,” Catelyn recited, watching her daughter and climbing to her feet as well. “Those were the words of my house, and it’s the same for…”

“No it’s not,” Lyandra interrupted quickly, turning to face her mother. “Robb has put duty and honour first. I am not blaming him, I am simply stating a fact. In times of war, there are things that come before family.

Catelyn looked astonished. She had thought of it differently, that Robb’s actions were for their family, vengeance for Ned’s death now. It was difficult to tell. There was a fine line in war, the reasons that it was fought. Power was definitely a factor, so what was it then? This war they fought, what was it for?

* * *

Lyandra did not go to see Robb. Her brother was busy with his duties as King in the North and commander of an army, and she did not want to waste his time. Instead she trudged down into the darkness with only a flickering torch to guide her way, down towards where Jaime Lannister was chained to a post.

Blood covered his face and Lyandra thought spitefully that he wasn’t quite so handsome now. She wished she could add to it. Just a cut or a bruise. Even though she normally abhorred violence, she wouldn’t mind it now, directed at the Kingslayer. But that would be proving that she was no better than him.

“I hear that you’re a Princess now,” Jaime’s tone was as dryly amused as ever. “Your brother, they call him King in the North…forgive me for not bowing in your presence, but as you can see, I’m a little tied up at the moment.”

She sneered at him. “Is everything a joke to you? I hear you pushed my brother off that tower. You must have found it quite amusing. No doubt my father’s death as well.”

Jaime considered her. He remembered her from Winterfell, the girl he had saved from a drunken Theon’s advances. She didn’t seem quite so young anymore. War changed people, he knew that better than anyone. It turned boys into men and men into soldiers. Lyandra considered him, the dried blood that caked his face. Her lip curled in contempt.

“Do you feel pain at all, Kingslayer? You are bloodied and bruised yet you still wag that tongue of yours like you’re looking for more. Do you secretly like it, is that it? I don’t understand you.”

He laughed at that. “Few people do, Princess.”

Lyandra’s anger flared. “Stop calling me that.”

“But isn’t that what you are?” Jaime raised an eyebrow. “Your brother has proclaimed himself a King, surely there is some kind of hierarchy.”

Here he was, a prisoner at their camp, and he was talking about hierarchies. Lyandra was teeming with hatred for the man, how he seemed to think that life was some kind of personal joke that only he understood. No wonder he had stabbed Aerys Targaryen in the back; no doubt he wasn’t honourable enough to deal the death blow through the heart.

“You are a sad little man,” she spat.

Jaime shrugged off the insult. He didn’t seem to care what she thought and Lyandra only wished she knew the words she could say to get under his skin. She wanted to hurt him the way his family had hurt her, her brother, her mother. She wanted to cause one Lannister pain, and although she did not have the stomach to do so with a knife or a fist or any other weapon, she wanted to do so with her words. Only, what was there to say? What could possibly harm a man that cared about nothing?

“You want to kill me.” It was a statement of fact, and Lyandra had to admit that Jaime was not far wrong. “Well, go on. It’s just you and me down here. We’re all alone. Why don’t you do it?”

She couldn’t not even if she had a weapon on her, not even though she desperately wanted to. It would be a bittersweet taste to send his head to King’s Landing, as retribution for what the rest of the Lannisters had done to her father. Lyandra’s small hands clenched into fists. She wanted to lash out at something, but she would not give Jaime the satisfaction of knowing how angry she was.

“Because I’m a better person than you will ever be.”

She turned on her heel and walked away from his mocking laughter. She had to walk away before she lost her temper and did something that she may end up regretting. Lyandra needed to work towards making things better, not worse. She needed vengeance, and she needed her sisters. With that thought in mind, Lyandra began to plan.

* * *

Winter was certainly coming, and with it rode the twenty thousand soldiers of Robb Stark. He was heir to the north – well, the lord now that his father had been executed for treason. Apparently, the northmen had rebelled further still and proclaimed Robb to be King in the North, resurrecting the ways of old when the men of the north had ruled themselves. The cold chill had even seeped so far as the Twins.

Samaria Frey was not entirely sure why her father Walder had agreed to an alliance. They frightened her a little, these loud and proud northern men. Whilst they had not dined in the ceremonial hall or even entered the Twins, Catelyn had. Word had it that Walder had promised one of his daughters to Robb, whichever the young man would choose. Samaria was nearly seventeen, certainly of an age to marry, but she did not think it would be her. She was too slender. Her eyes were too dark and her brows too thick. Her only vanity was the long, golden blonde hair that fell to her waist.

“Is Robb Stark truly as handsome as the maids all say?” Roslyn inquired as Samaria ran a comb through her pale brown tresses. The two girls were very close, due to the fact that Roslyn was Samaria’s only full-blood sister. They shared the same fair complexion, down to the freckles across their noses.

“I have never seen him myself,” Samaria stated, putting the comb down and starting to work Roslyn’s shimmering hair into a braid. “I couldn’t tell you.”

Perhaps it would be Roslyn to marry Robb. She was two years Samaria’s junior, but Samaria would be pleased to be the sister of the Queen in the North. It would make feel, rather childishly, like she might even gain the title of princess. Didn’t every little girl dream of being a princess? Only, Samaria was far from a child, and dreams were shattered with frightening regularity by the harshness of the real world.


	6. Sold Me Out To Save Yourself

**Warnings: none**

“Have you lost your mind?” Robb paced the command tent with an agitated gait. It hardly surprised Lyandra – since they had heard of their father’s tragic death, her older brother had been hard to placate. She would often find him in the oddest places, sharpening his swords or talking with Theon, away from all of the hubbub. Ned’s death was still sinking in. So was Robb’s new position as King in the North. The responsibility that had been piled upon his shoulders when he had chosen to lead them in the war had now amplified ten-fold. It was as though Robb no longer had the ability to keep still, whereas Lyandra longed for the little snippets of quiet that she would be lucky to find in a day.

Catelyn watched her two oldest children wearily. Ned’s death had probably impacted on her the hardest. Over the years she had grown to love the stranger from Winterfell she had been wed to, and she loved their children with all the ferocity she was capable of. Her two youngest children had been left in Winterfell. Her two younger daughters were held prisoner in King’s Landing. It was no wonder she didn’t want to risk the lives of the only children who remained with her. So when Lyandra had stated her intention to venture to King’s Landing to swear fealty to Joffrey, Catelyn had been disappointed. She had seen her daughter’s suggestion as an acceptance of a defeat they hadn’t yet encountered. However, when Lyandra had stated her reasons, the suggestion morphed alarmingly quickly from cowardly into dangerous.

“Don’t you want to save Sansa and Arya?” Lyandra demanded, standing tall as her brother paced past her, back and forth. Her plan was a risky one, perhaps even a stupid one, but weren’t the true betrayals always from the inside? If she swore herself to Joffrey, forsaking her family, the Lannisters would believe her to be on their side. Then she would turn to people she could trust, people who might be able to help her free her sisters from the Lannisters’ claws. It may take a while, but it was better that than leaving the girls at their mercy. Robb was busy with his war campaign and new duties as King. Her mother had to advise Robb. So it fell to Lyandra to practise her diplomatic backstabbing.

“I am King in the North, and I forbid it.” Robb’s voice was as cold as winter itself as he turned and fixed hard eyes upon his younger sister. He had been easily irritated with her since he found out that she had followed them into battle. Of course she hadn’t participated in the fighting – Lyandra flinched at any kind of violence, so the battle itself must have made her sick to the stomach – but it was risky enough having her on the fringes. His sister was stubborn, but he was no longer playing the older brother card. He was the King in the North and she his subject. She would listen to him, or face the consequences.

“You can’t leave the girls to Joffrey!” Lyandra cried passionately, her small hands balling into fists. This was her family they were talking about. They were as much Robb’s sisters as they were hers, and yet he was willing to leave them in the hands of a boy who had proved himself to be mad beyond a doubt? Joffrey was cruel, and Lyandra did not like to think how her sisters, especially pretty Sansa, were faring.

“We could trade them for Jaime Lannister,” Catelyn suggested, a tentative solution which caused Robb to glare in her direction. She might be his mother, but she too was subject to his authority.

“No. Cersei would never trade two girls for the Kingslayer.”

“Then what I’m saying makes sense,” Lyandra piped up, planting her hands on her hips. She and Robb normally got along well. As children, he had always been the protective older brother who would stand up for her whenever Theon teased her. Now, he had changed. He was too much the King for her liking. She wanted the real Robb back, for she missed him dearly. The real Robb would never have left his little sisters at the mercy of the Lannisters.

“She’s right.” Catelyn sighed heavily. She didn’t want to agree with Lyandra. She didn’t want her oldest daughter to go anywhere near King’s Landing. But the truth was, talking politics or playing war were not going to help them get Sansa and Arya back. Sometimes, trickery was needed. Lyandra had always been good at persuading people. When she was little, she had managed to get her father to import some of the finest Dornish chocolate, despite the high price. The only question was, was Lyandra good enough to convince the Lannisters that she was loyal? Her life, and the lives of her sisters, may depend on it.

Robb whirled around to glance in bewilderment at his mother. Catelyn, who had always done whatever she could to protect her children, to keep them from harm. Now she was agreeing to let Lyandra go and stare danger boldly in the face. The Lannisters could kill her, or worse. He didn’t understand why his mother would allow her to take such risks, at such a great cost to her own person if she failed.

“Mother, she can’t.”

“She can,” Catelyn replied, her voice growing firmer now, “She is sixteen years of age now, Robb. She is no longer a child. I have faith in Lyandra’s abilities. Even Cersei is not fool enough to have her executed simply because she is a Stark. If anything, the Queen would find her another political prisoner to use against us. If Lyandra says she ventured out from Winterfell…”

“She is going to die!” Robb burst out, no longer able to control himself. He didn’t want to see any more death coming to their family. Ned’s execution had rent them apart, was still destroying them now. He couldn’t and didn’t want to imagine how his mother would cope if Lyandra, Sansa and Arya died.

“I won’t.” Lyandra caught her brother’s hand in hers and squeezed reassuringly. She could understand why Robb was so concerned. He heaved a sigh, looking anywhere but at her. Lyandra threw her arms around his neck and pressed close, hugging him fiercely. He hugged back and she could tell by his tense posture that he was still reluctant to let her leave. Lyandra didn’t want to leave, either. She was scared, but she had to overcome her fear. For Sansa and Arya.

* * *

Night had fallen by the time Lyandra had saddled her horse and turned to face what remained of her family, forcing herself to be brave. Her father had always told her there could be no courage without fear, so perhaps she was truly courageous for the fact that she was doing this despite her trepidation. Her heart ached whenever she thought of her father’s wisdom. Every time she remembered what had happened to him – the treason that an honourable man like Ned Stark would never have committed – it made the cold of winter grow inside her, a cold that would gnaw away at those Lannister pretenders soon enough.

“Are you sure about this?” Robb cast around him, before his gaze finally settled on his younger sister. He could say he had exactly enjoyed having her around – sometimes Lyandra could be quite a pest – but she was still part of his family and he loved her fiercely. Having to let her go was possibly harder than having to lead the Stark banner-men into battle. “It’s not too late to change your mind. Mother and I won’t think anything less of you if you do.”

“No.” Lyandra’s voice was firm, but she couldn’t help but think of two other Starks who had ventured south to King’s Landing, years before she was born. Rickard and Brandon Stark had been callously murdered by Aerys Targaryen. What was to say this new King, Joffrey, would not have her executed as well? She couldn’t know what awaited her in the capital, and that frightened her more than certain death.

Catelyn moved forward and embraced her daughter, her eyes welling with tears she couldn’t prevent from spilling down her cheeks. The Tully motto had always been ‘family, duty, honour’ and right now she found that family was more important to her than ever. She had lost Ned; her children were all she had left. Yet Robb fought a war against the powerful Lannisters, and even now Lyandra was leaving her to surrender herself to the mercy of the merciless. Catelyn was not sure if she would see her oldest daughter again.

“I will return, Mother,” Lyandra said, a promise that she knew she couldn’t keep. What would the Lannisters do with the oldest daughter of the traitor Ned Stark? What had they already done to Sansa and Arya? It made Lyandra’s stomach twist just thinking about it. All she could do now was pray to the old gods and the new that her sisters were safe, that the Lannisters would not harm political prisoners.

She turned to face Robb, unable to force a smile before she burst into tears, clutching him tight. The King in the North held his younger sister tightly, kissing the top of her head. Yes, she was a fool for what she was planning…but he could only damn well hope that it worked. It seemed like forever before Lyandra extricated herself from his arms and straightened her shoulders, determination shining in her blue eyes as she pulled herself up into her horse’s saddle.

* * *

The Twins had always been a bleak place in Robb’s opinion, especially now that he didn’t have Lyandra to make dry commentary or tease him about the prospect of having to pick a bride. Picking was even worse than being betrothed to a certain girl, Robb surmised. All of these girls, these daughters of Lord Frey standing before him waiting for him to choose one of them…it sounding excruciating to him. Theon had been rather smug about the whole, which along with Lyandra’s departure, was only causing Robb to become more irritated with him.

Robb had wanted to wait until the war was over, yet somehow he thought perhaps his mother feared losing him as well. Catelyn kept talking about how her son needed a wife and heir of his own, a prospect that made Robb cringe, but he knew that he must do his duty. With Lyandra gone, Catelyn was clearly becoming paranoid that she was going to lose all of her children, and then the Stark name would be nothing but dust.

“Robb Stark.” Walder Frey was a watery-eyed old man who observed Robb with nothing more or less than disdain. The King in the North clenched his jaw, but played his part. His mother was watching him carefully and Walder motioned towards the doors. With whispers and a rustle of skirts, Walder Frey’s daughters entered the room.

Robb swallowed hard as he inspected them critically. Only a few of the daughters were around his own age, and of those many of them were…not particularly attractive, if he was to be honest about it. He knew better than to judge merely on appearance, but if he had to choose a wife, it must be a woman he could at least stand. The women lapsed into silence, and the only sound that could be heard was that of Robb’s boots clacking across the stone floor as he paced back and forth.

* * *

Samaria stood beside Roslyn, remembering what she had always been told about keeping her shoulders straight and sticking her chest out – not that she had much in the way of breasts in any case. Robb Stark was indeed a handsome young man, perhaps only a year her senior. His blue eyes raked over them and Samaria couldn’t help but catch at her younger sister’s wrist. Roslyn drew a sharp breath, but dared not glance at him. They both stood completely still as Robb passed them and continued down the line.

“What if he chooses Fat Walda?” Roslyn leaned across to whisper in her older sister’s ear. Samaria couldn’t quite help it – a giggle escaped her at the thought. Several of her sisters glowered in irritation at her and Robb whipped around. Samaria’s cheeks flamed and she lapsed into silence, but it was already too late.

“Who was that?” Robb inquired, walking back down the line. “Who laughed?”

Samaria felt that she was rather in trouble now. There was no doubt that her father was glaring across at her. Roslyn’s eyes were demurely averted and she released her younger sister’s wrist, taking a deep breath and stepping forward. Was this _boy_ truly going to reprimand her simply because she had giggled accidentally during his inspection?

“It was me, your grace.”

Robb inspected her for what seemed like hours. His cool blue gaze seemed to see into her very soul. It made Samaria feel a little uncomfortable, but although she shifted her feet, she did not avert her eyes. Behind her, the rest of her sisters were whispering amongst each other. Samaria remained silent during Robb’s inspection of her.

“What is your name?” he inquired.

The question caught her off guard. “Samaria, your grace.”

“And how old are you, Samaria?”

She bit her lip. “Nearly seventeen.”

There were a crucial few moments as Samaria wondered exactly why he was asking her so many questions. She knew that she had turned beet red by the heat that seemed to simmer off her cheeks. Robb took her hands in his and Samaria nearly jumped out of her skin at the contact, causing him to smile wryly.

“I pick you.”

“Your grace…” Samaria was not sure what to say. She was grateful, of course, but she could almost feel Roslyn’s eyes boring into her back. A smile dawned across her lips, but Robb had already released her and stepped away, walking back over to Walder and his mother. The smile faded slightly. Robb had not chosen her because he loved her. Perhaps he even resented her for being the one he had picked, for he had to pick someone.

Samaria turned to face Roslyn. The younger girl stepped forward and pulled Samaria into an embrace. Perhaps Roslyn was trying to keep back tears, for Samaria knew that she certainly was. She did not want to leave her home, to venture to the cold north and fight a war that was not hers. She would have to support every decision of Robb’s, and suddenly she felt that she was floundering, drowning. It was too deep for her to float and she still couldn’t bring herself to let go of what was holding her up: her family.


	7. Your Secrets In My Skin

**Warnings:** **sex**

Lyandra couldn’t deny the fear coursing through her veins as she remained on her knees before Joffrey and his mother, Cersei. She kept her head down, for in truth she worried what she might see in their eyes. Was she already condemned? Perhaps Robb’s concerns had been right. Maybe she too would lose her head, like her father before her. Lyandra forcibly pushed away the thought and swallowed the hard lump in her throat. She just wanted to see her sisters. That was all. She just needed to know that they were alive.

“I say we have her executed.” Joffrey practically spat the words. Lyandra tensed and she couldn’t help the panic that flared within her. Her instincts told her to get up and run, but could not and would not. She was a she-wolf, and she would not flee from her fate. She raised her head, slowly, uncertainly. Joffrey stared down at her with icy eyes. “Just like her traitor father and traitor brother.”

“Joffrey, don’t be absurd.” Cersei’s voice was calmer, more reasonable. She watched Lyandra with as much hatred as her son, and there was no mercy in those green eyes. However – perhaps there could still be a chance. “We can’t have her killed, she has committed no crimes. She will remain here with her sister Sansa. She has sworn fealty. You can’t _execute_ her.”

Joffrey scowled, displeased. Lyandra was rather grateful for Cersei’s presence, her constant whispering in her son’s ear, for otherwise she supposed she would be sent out to meet the executioner as well. Weak with relief, Lyandra staggered to her feet when Joffrey motioned for her to rise. A cold smile cut across Cersei’s face.

“Perhaps it is time for the Stark sisters to be reunited. Sansa, dear. You may come out.”

Lyandra glanced around wildly, suppressing a cry of delight when she noticed her lovely younger sister tentatively making her way out from behind a pillar, where she had no doubt been watching and listening to the entire thing. Sansa hurried across to Lyandra – in a dignified fashion, of course – and flung her arms around her older sister. Lyandra realised that her little sister was as tall as she was now. Nonetheless, she clung to Sansa with protective arms, unwilling to let her go.

“Lyandra? Why are you here?” Sansa inquired.

“I am here to atone for our father’s crimes,” Lyandra forced herself to get the words out of her mouth, “As well as our brother’s.”

“Little dove, it seems that your sister may be of use after all,” Cersei informed Sansa with a saccharine smile. “She is only little younger than my cousin Lancel. Perhaps a betrothal between him and Lyandra would be a wise decision.”

Lyandra immediately understood. She had heard that Lancel was completely under the thumb of his cousins and uncle, Tywin. By marrying her to him, they would ensure that Lyandra remained a prisoner forever in the only way they could. She seethed with the injustice of it, yet knew there was nothing she could do about it. Lyandra reluctantly released her sister, watching Sansa carefully. Even now, she wasn’t sure whose side her sister was on.

“Where is Arya?” Lyandra inquired as it suddenly occurred to her that she hadn’t seen her youngest sister. Dread coiled like a sleeping snake in her stomach, and she had to prevent herself from panicking once more. Surely there must be some kind of explanation as to why Arya had not been presented to her as well.

“The little brat has so far managed to evade us.” Cersei’s face closed off, her eyes cold as marble. “But we will find her.”

Relief surged through Lyandra. This was better than she had expected. At least one of her sisters had managed to evade the clutches of the Lannisters. She breathed an inaudible sigh, before clutching at Sansa’s hand. Now that she had been reunited with her younger sister, she was reluctant to let her out of her sight. Cersei noticed with a smile that, as usual, never reached her eyes.

“Perhaps I should introduce you to Lancel.” Cersei got to her feet and crossed over to the two Stark girls. “I am certain he’ll be more than pleased with the arrangement.”

* * *

Lyandra’s first thought was that Lancel looked rather like Jaime. He was polite and yet somewhat nervous when Cersei introduced him. He kissed her hand and smiled a little apprehensively as Cersei explained her idea of betrothing them. Lyandra remained in stony silence, even when Lancel’s eyes raked over her. She knew that he was judging her, trying to discern whether he found her a worthy bride. She viciously hoped that the answer was no.

“What do you think, Lancel?” Cersei inquired, as though Lyandra was not present at all. She could see that the Stark girl was fuming; however there was nothing that she could do about the situation.

“She’s pretty enough,” Lancel replied, although his gaze was somewhat disdainful. It must be because of what she was: a Stark. A wolf girl. There was also something about the way he kept looking to Cersei, as though constantly seeking his cousin’s approval. It struck Lyandra as slightly odd, for reasons she couldn’t quite place.

“Good.” Cersei smiled sweetly and caught hold of Lyandra’s arm, leading her out of the room. Once they were out of earshot of the others, Cersei dug her nails into the girl’s arm, causing Lyandra to wince. “Sweet Lyandra, I can’t imagine what would bring you to King’s Landing. If you had hoped to come here with the foolish notion of setting your sisters free, I’m afraid you’re sadly mistaken.”

“Why would you think that, your grace?” Lyandra’s tone registered nothing but an innocent astonishment. She locked eyes with Cersei. _I can play this game just like you can._ “I have simply seen the error of my family’s ways. My brother is a renegade and my father was a traitor. They deserve whatever is coming to them.”

* * *

Lyandra was glad when she found some time to spend with Sansa, although the two girls were kept under heavy watch. She was beginning to grow frustrated, for she was beginning to see the impossibility of escaping King’s Landing. It made her grow desperate, but she knew she needed to calm herself down or else risk making irrational decisions. She sat across from Sansa, watching as her younger sister ate the fruit on the platter with steady hands.

“How have they been treating you?” Lyandra asked quietly. Her sister gave no indication she had even heard the question, elegantly dissecting an apple. “Sansa?”

“I have not been harmed,” Sansa murmured, although Lyandra knew immediately by the way her younger sister averted her eyes and concentrated on her food that she was lying. Lyandra leaned across and gently caught Sansa’s wrist, caused the younger girl to look up.

“Sansa, what have they done?”

“Joffrey…” Sansa shook her head, unable to continue. Lyandra’s grip tightened slightly around her sister’s wrist, and she went cold inside. She had always known Joffrey to be a cruel boy, with a sort of sadism to his personality. Now that he was King…Lyandra shuddered, remembering how adamant about her execution he had been. She pressed a crumpled piece of parchment into her younger sister’s hands.

“Look. I’m writing a letter to send to Robb and Mother.”

Sansa examined the words on the parchment, her eyes widening as she saw that her older sister had written down the atrocities she suspected Sansa to have been through, the absence of Arya and also that she would be promised to Lancel. Sansa snatched up the parchment and tore it up, much to Lyandra’s shock. She reached across and caught her younger sister by the shoulder.

“What are you doing?!”

“You can’t send that,” Sansa protested, before glancing around and adopting a quieter tone. “That could be seen as treason, Lyandra. They could kill us both. They already killed Father. I watched them do it. I don’t want that to happen to me.”

Lyandra raked a hand through her dark hair in frustration. Sansa was right, yet how else was she supposed to let Robb and their mother know what was happening? How else did they ever have a chance of escaping King’s Landing? She knew that she would become a prisoner herself and have to bide her time, but the time for patience was over. They needed to find Arya. She took a deep breath, forcing herself to remain calm. The best plans were always the one that came naturally over time. If Lyandra tried to force anything, she and Sansa could end up dead as well.

* * *

Samaria sat nervously beside Robb Stark – her _husband_ – at the feast prepared in their honour. Of course, House Frey was definitely not known for being small, and it seemed that many of Samaria’s relatives had come to wish her well in her marriage to the King in the North. She played with the long, flowing white sleeves of her dress. She had done her part wonderfully. She had said her vows and allowed Robb to place a brief, chaste kiss on her lips. However, Samaria was all too aware of what came next: the bedding.

Robb was too busy listening to a joke Theon Greyjoy was telling him. Of course, there was nothing for him to fear. Bedding wasn’t supposed to hurt for men, but according to Samaria’s married sisters, for women it was not a pleasant experience the first time around. A hand on her shoulder brought Samaria out of her reverie, and she turned with a delighted smile as she saw Roslyn standing behind her chair.

“Congratulations, you’re a married woman now.”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” Samaria couldn’t help a nervous grin. “You will take a husband soon yourself.”

“I hope so.” Roslyn smiled, sinking into the vacant seat beside her older sister. “You know, it will be alright.”

Samaria feigned ignorance. “What will?”

“I know that you’re nervous about the bedding,” Roslyn placed a hand over her sister’s. “You never could hide anything from me. But don’t worry – it’s only a small prick of pain and then it’s over. Like when you pricked your finger on the sewing needle.”

Samaria couldn’t restrain a small laugh at that. She had never been as patient with sewing as her younger sister, and she had pricked her finger _many_ times. However, she doubted that losing her maidenhead would the same sort of pain as that. She risked a glance at Robb, who was still deep in conversation with Theon.

“Your Majesty.”

Samaria at first thought the comment was addressed to her husband, before she saw Catelyn Stark crossing over to her with a wry smile that didn’t reach her eyes. No wonder – Samaria had heard rumours that all three of the woman’s daughters were currently in King’s Landing, in the clutches of Lannisters. It was a shame, really. Samaria would have liked to meet them. Lyandra, the oldest, was no more than a year her junior.

“Lady Stark.” Samaria inclined her head, and Roslyn murmured some excuse before quickly vacating the seat so that the older woman could take it. Samaria was a little intimidated by Catelyn, if truth be told but she did not say anything on the matter. This woman was now her good-mother.

“It’s about time for the bedding.” Catelyn offered Samaria her goblet of wine, watching as the young girl took a tentative sip. She was not an extraordinary beauty, but she was pretty enough. Personally, Catelyn thought Robb could do better, yet she knew that her son was merely doing his duty by marrying the girl.

“Come, Samaria!” Theon Greyjoy took her arm and hauled her to feet, spinning her around. He seemed too loud and crude for Samaria’s liking, but considering his closeness with Robb, she doubted she would be permitted to say that about him. He and the other young men tugged her out of the hall and into the bedroom. Theon smirked as he unlaced her dress, sliding it down.

“I don’t doubt Robb will be pleased with you. You’re quite a pretty little thing.”

Samaria couldn’t quite help the flush that burned in her cheeks, even more so as the young ladies undressing Robb brought him into the room. Once the pair were fully undressed, the young men and women filed from the room with much giggling and joking. Roslyn paused briefly to give Samaria a worried look, before she closed the door behind them, leaving Samaria alone with her husband.

“You’ve gone all red.” Robb walked over and kissed the top of his wife’s head. Admittedly, this was rather awkward for him as well. He had never bedded a woman before and didn’t have the slightest idea what he was doing, but he had often heard Theon’s rather graphic descriptions of his time in the brothel.

Samaria jerked away from him and went to lie on the bed, taking calming breathes as she looked up at the ceiling. The pain would be over quickly, she had been assured. She could only hope her sisters were right about that. She had never appeared naked before a man, and now she felt a little self-conscious. She was a little slender. Hopefully her body pleased Robb. He climbed on top of her and kissed her, but she turned her face. There was no need to pretend there was anything romantic about this. Robb had only married her because it granted him her father’s support.

Robb sighed heavily, but kissed Samaria’s neck instead. Don’t make it sudden, Theon had said. Make sure to give her some pleasure before the actual act of making love. That way, it wouldn’t be as painful. He kissed down her collarbone, hands fondling her breasts. Samaria began to relax beneath him, trailing her hands uncertainly up Robb’s back. He ran a hand up her leg, over her thigh. She gasped at the sudden feeling of his fingers inside her, tensing up a little.

“It’s alright,” Robb told her a little huskily. Samaria remained still beneath him, beginning to feel her muscles loosening a bit as she surrendered to his ministrations. After a moment, Robb withdrew his fingers and crawled over her. She braced herself, but Robb just kissed her neck for a few moments. She opened her eyes, wondering if he was inside her and she hadn’t felt it – but then Robb thrust into her quickly, breaking through the barrier of her maidenhead. Samaria couldn’t help but cry out at the sudden pain.

“I’m sorry,” Robb muttered, his hands running down her sides before his fingers tightened around her hips. He gently pushed her legs a little further apart, his movements at first slow and cautious but then faster as he started to lose control of himself. Samaria gasped as pleasure started to take over from the pain. Robb groaned in pleasure and his movements became more erratic as he drew closer to his finish.

Samaria ran her hands through his dark, curly hair. She tilted her head back as her own pleasure intensified, a strange tickly feeling starting in the bottom of her stomach. Robb reached his climax with a loud groan, flopping onto her in exhaustion. With their sweat-slick bodies pressed so close together, her heart racing, Samaria could almost feel that this was something other than a marriage of convenience. However, it would be foolish to forget.

“Did I hurt you?” Robb inquired as he rolled off her. He did not put her arms around her, which Samaria was grateful for. She did not need comfort now that the act of making love was over. She simply needed her own space.

“Only a little.” Samaria offered him a small smile. “I’m alright now.”

“That’s good,” Robb muttered tiredly, before curling on his side and falling asleep. It took Samaria much longer, her body aching with the pains of lovemaking and her heart aching at the pain of having to leave her family behind all too soon. She would be Samaria Stark, Queen in the North – but she would give anything to just stay and remain Samaria Frey.


	8. These Battle Scars

**Warnings: whipping**

Lyandra had quickly come to note the hours at which the guard outside her and Sansa’s rooms changed. It was a minor detail at first, but the more attention she paid to it, the more she decided to do something about this detail. So when the candles waned and the hour drew close to midnight, Lyandra crept over to Sansa and shook her awake. The red-haired girl jolted up and her eyes widened when she saw that her older sister had donned her thick fur travelling cloak. Sansa shook her head slowly, curling her knees to her chest.

“No, we mustn’t!” Sansa whispered, her paled face betraying the fear she felt. When Lyandra reached out to touch her younger sister’s arm, she felt that the girl was shaking with terror. “If we get caught…I can’t even bear to think about it.”

“Would you prefer to stay here?” Lyandra hissed impatiently, taking care to keep her voice down so as to not alert anyone to what was happening. She folded her arms across her chest and frowned. “If you would rather live out your days as a prisoner, so be it. At least you no longer have to marry Joffrey. But I would rather die escaping this horrible place. You don’t seem to understand there’s a difference between surviving and _living._ I came to get you and Arya back, and I can get you out.”

“What about Arya?” Sansa inquired, worry colouring her tone. It was one of the few times Sansa had spoken about their younger sister and although she and Arya had fought something terrible, it was obvious that she was truly concerned for their youngest sister. However, Lyandra knew that Arya was a smart girl. If she had managed to evade the Lannisters, it was very likely that she was no longer within the capital.

“We’ll find her,” Lyandra insisted, a promise she wasn’t certain that she could keep. She held out her hand to Sansa and after a moment’s hesitation, the younger girl took it. Lyandra tugged her to her feet, watching impatiently as Sansa tugged on her cloak with fumbling fingers. She crept over to the door and held up a hand, listening for a few moments. The sound of boots clacking down the corridor was growing more distant. Evidently, the guard had gone to meet his replacement halfway.

Lyandra drew her hairpin out, letting her dark hair fall past her shoulders. She moved fast, almost desperately in her haste. The silver pin glowed ominously in the moonlight as it twisted and clicked, and a sigh of relief escaped Sansa as Lyandra pushed the door open. Glancing around at the flickering torches, Lyandra realised with slight panic that she didn’t know the way out from their rooms. The Red Keep was like a maze to her with all of its twists and turns. However she knew that the main thing was to retain her calm, so she took a deep breath and licked her lips.

“Come, Sansa.”

She grasped blindly for her younger sister’s hand, and Sansa gave it all too willingly. Lyandra padded down the corridors, glancing around and jumping at every noise she heard. She supposed it couldn’t be too difficult to find an exit. There wouldn’t only be the main ones, but also smaller ones where the kitchen staff or servants or guards would come through…

“Oi! What are you two doing?”

“Run!” Lyandra exclaimed, forgetting all of her noble ideas about keeping composure. She dragged Sansa behind her as she sprinted down the steps, only she was too focused on her pursuer and not focused enough on what was in front of her. Lyandra’s stomach lurched when she missed a step and went tumbling down the stairwell. Sansa’s hand jerked from hers, and she thought she heard her sister scream, before all noise and light faded.

* * *

Lyandra woke to a throbbing head and scrapes all over her legs. She winced at the sight of the bloody scratches, before she realised, to her shock, that Cersei was sitting beside the bed watching her closely. The Queen smiled, but her green eyes were devoid of anything but coldness.

“Lyandra, sweetling, that was not a wise decision.” Cersei sighed and leaned back in her chair, picking up a goblet of wine and taking a languid sip. “I know how fragile dear Sansa was, and I think even a fool would be able to tell that this scheme was yours. Is that correct?”

“Yes.” Lyandra’s voice was hoarse and she swallowed hard, but she would do anything to prevent her little sister from being harmed – and it was true. Sansa had been frightened, she had wanted no part in the escape. The blame could only rest on Lyandra’s shoulders…as Cersei knew all too well.

“Of course, such attempts cannot go without being punished.” Cersei clambered to her feet and gestured for the guards. Disregarding Lyandra’s aching head and scraped legs, they hauled he off her bed and to her feet. She found herself blurring in and out of focus, her vision spiralling like she was spinning too fast, as she was marched down flights of stairs and out into a courtyard.

“What’s going on?” It was Sansa’s voice, and she sounded frightened.

“Lyandra is paying the price for her crimes, dearest,” Cersei replied airily, and Lyandra found herself staring at a man with a whip in his hand, uncoiling like a snake waking from slumber. Her head gave another painful throb as her arms were tied to two poles, the back of her dress ripped open. She gasped at the humiliation of being so exposed, as well as the knowledge that the man with the whip had moved behind her. Lyandra wanted to beg, but somehow, no words found their way from her mouth.

“No, please!” Sansa cried out, her voice shrill, tearing through the haze of Lyandra’s mind. There was a sharp crack and a searing pain seemed to light up her every nerve. She cried out and if it wasn’t for the ropes holding her in place, she knew that she would have fallen over. Everything faded black, and then back in again. Lyandra tasted blood in her mouth.

“Five should do nicely, Ser Ilyn,” Cersei said placidly.

* * *

Lyandra curled on her side, for if she lay on her back, she knew that the deep cuts on her back would stick to her dress and sting. Not that they didn’t already ache – the pain brought tears to her eyes, and every movement was agonising. She knew now the price of defiance, but instead of deterring her, the whipping only made her more determined to escape.

Sansa sat curled on the bed beside her older sister, watching Lyandra with a concerned expression. It had looked so painful, what had befallen her older sister. She had seen her father beheaded and now her sister whipped. Lyandra was quiet, more quiet than usual. Sansa leaned across and started to gently stroke her older sister’s dark hair back from her face. Perhaps she could do something right. Maybe this time, it was her turn to look after Lyandra rather than the other way around.

“How is your back?” Sansa asked quietly, although she already knew the answer. Despite the fact that Grand Maester Pycelle had applied a soothing balm to ensure Lyandra’s cuts didn’t get infected, blood still wept from the open wounds, staining the back of her white dress. Every movement was tentative.

“How do you think?” Lyandra snapped, but she immediately regretted taking her anger out on Sansa, and she sighed. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be so horrid to you. I just…I want to go home. I thought that I could bargain with the Queen and get you and Arya back, but…I was so stupid. Sansa, I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Sansa soothed, although they both knew her words to be meaningless. They were political prisoners, but prisoners nonetheless. If they were not highborn, they would have been thrown in the dungeons to rot. Lyandra had suffered for their escape attempt, proving that even noblewomen did not go unpunished. Sansa wondered what their father would think if he was still alive.

Lyandra sighed. She kept hoping she would wake up in Winterfell and find that everything had just been a nightmare. She wished for it more than anything, even if it meant being teased by Robb and flirted with by Theon. Now it was just her and Sansa, fending for themselves in King’s Landing. Lyandra wondered, with dread creeping up inside her, when the Lannisters would tire of holding them prisoner. She wondered how much longer she and Sansa would continue to be of use – and what would happen to them when their usefulness expired.

* * *

It wasn’t often that Robb went down to Jaime’s cage to see how the Kingslayer was faring. It was a more frequent occurrence that he went down there to interrogate the man. Samaria had expressed a curious interest in meeting the man, or at least lingering with Robb when he visited the Kingslayer’s cage. However Robb had dismissed the idea, deeming it far too dangerous for his new wife. So he came down with only the guards for company.

“My mother said that you admitted to pushing Bran from the tower.” Robb had no desire to play any verbal games with Jaime, so he got straight to the point. His blue eyes were as cold as winter itself, and Grey Wind lurked behind him, growling threateningly.

“News seems to travel very fast around your camp,” Jaime noted wryly, tilting his head to the side and examining this so-called king. “I’m surprised I haven’t heard all the gritty details about your wedding night with…what’s her name? The Frey girl.”

“Don’t talk about my wife like that,” Robb snarled, his hands clenching into fists. He couldn’t help but become infuriated by Jaime, much as he tried to maintain his composure. The Kingslayer was very good at winding people up, and it seemed as though Robb was no exception. However, after discovering exactly what Jaime had done, it was no wonder he had little tolerance for his games. “Why did you push Bran?”

Jaime laughed lazily. “You think that even though I won’t tell your mother, I’ll tell you? Let me make something clear, boy: I did it for a reason, and if I revealed that reason, you might just have to meet an unpleasant end.”

“Don’t threaten me.” Robb’s eyes narrowed. There was more than just what Jaime had done – Lyandra had still not returned from the capital, and there was no news of her. Each day meant the knots in his stomach tied that little bit tighter, and new lines would appear around Catelyn’s eyes as she heard nothing from her oldest daughter. “Why do I have no word from my sister? You know Cersei better than anyone.”

“Two prisoners are better than one,” Jaime said dryly, leaning his head back against the post to which he was chained. “Your sweet sister all but rode right into Cersei’s arms. Were you expecting her to let the girls go? Lyandra might have thought she had a plan, but your sister is nothing but a foolish little girl.”

Robb’s eyes hardened, but he said nothing of the insults towards his sister. The Lannisters had done enough to his family. He had dreaded this happening, and now that he was almost certain that Lyandra had been taken prisoner too, he knew that drastic action needed to be taken…but what would that action be.

“We were all foolish once,” Robb retorted, his hand drifting towards the hilt of his sword. “You were foolish to believe that just because you are from the richest family in Westeros meant that you could defeat any other house in combat.”

Before Jaime could offer a reply, Robb turned on his heel and stalked away, gesturing for the guards to lock the cage behind him. He trudged up the hill, closely tailed by Grey Wind. When he reached the crest, he noticed that Samaria was waiting for him, rubbing her arms as though that would keep out the chill. He sighed heavily.

“Why did you want to come?”

“I’ve never seen the Kingslayer before,” Samaria said softly, and her eyes asked too many questions that Robb didn’t want to answer. He was always irritated after visiting Jaime, and he didn’t want to take that annoyance out on his wife. He may not love Samaria, but he knew that his father had always been an honourable man in all things, and that had included his marriage to Catelyn. Robb strived to be the same.

“I hope you never do,” Robb replied, offering her his hand. Samaria hesitated for a brief moment, before she allowed Robb to lead her back towards the lights of the Stark camp.


	9. What Resembles Rage

**Warnings: attempted rape**

Lyandra was suspicious of Petyr Baelish – otherwise known as Littlefinger. He had come to speak with her earlier, and she had become wary when he had spoken of helping her escape. He was all smiles, but she did not trust those eyes of his, eyes that had seen too many things for her liking. Petyr insisted that as Sansa reminded him of their mother Catelyn, Lyandra reminded him of the woman she had been named for, Ned’s sister Lyanna. Petyr thought Lyandra was smart and brave, but she had turned her face from his compliments.

“Do you really think he will help us?” Sansa inquired in a fearful whisper, as though scared they might be overheard.

Lyandra was not certain. Petyr had informed her that he was willing to she and Sansa back north, but from what knowledge she had gained of him, Lyandra knew that Petyr would want something in return…yet so far, he had asked for nothing. It made her paranoid that he may betray them after all, taking advantage of their fierce determination to get home. Then there was also the matter of missing Arya, which Lyandra continued to fret about.

“I wouldn’t pin my hopes on him,” Lyandra replied dryly. The whip marks on her back still stung a little. If Petyr was so determined to save them, would he not have been better to do so _before_ their botched attempt at an escape. “He was friends with Mother, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he owes us anything.”

The door opened and both girls lapsed into silence, an action born from instinct. Petyr stood in the doorway, raising an eyebrow. Lyandra pushed herself to her feet, clutching blindly at Sansa’s hand. She wanted to trust this man, she wanted to escape King’s Landing – but what if this was just another test of the Queen’s? Perhaps they were not meant to survive this after all.

“There is no need to be so afraid.” Petyr chuckled at the sudden tension. “I don’t bite, you know. But if you want your freedom, you must come with me.”

Lyandra’s blue eyes narrowed. “How do we know we can trust you?”

“You don’t,” Petyr responded, before he spun on his heel and walked out of the room. Lyandra exchanged a brief glance with Sansa. There was hope sparkling in her younger sister’s eyes, and she couldn’t bring herself to kill it now. Reluctantly, she followed Petyr down a series of staircases and corridors, until they reached the stables.

The flames cast a waxen light over the straw and Lyandra pursed her lips as she saw that a horse had been prepared for them. The saddlebags seemed to be full already, perhaps with food and other items. Lyandra turned to face Petyr, watching the yellow light that cast shadows upon his face and yet brought some of it into sharp relief.

“I know you don’t trust me,” Petyr said wryly, folding his thin arms over his chest. “You are like your father there.”

“You _betrayed_ my father,” Lyandra replied, her voice as cold as the wind that whipped so harshly through Winterfell.

“Your father refused to listen to me.” Petyr shrugged, watching as Lyandra helped Sansa up onto the horse. “Hopefully you won’t make the same mistakes. I want what’s best for the realm, Lyandra.”

She pressed her lips together firmly as she tugged herself up onto the horse behind her younger sister. Perhaps Petyr’s words convinced others that he spoke the truth, but Lyandra didn’t trust the man one bit, even though he had helped them. No doubt there would come a day when he would demand recompense for his assistance…and Lyandra didn’t think she would like the price he would ask them to pay.

“Your family is headed south for Riverrun to seek your grandfather’s support,” Petyr informed the two girls as Lyandra took up the reigns. “You can find them on the road, most likely. An army shouldn’t be too hard to locate, I should imagine.”

“Thank for your help, Lord Baelish,” Sansa murmured, her pretty courtesies smoothing over her older sister’s hostile attitude towards Petyr. The man offered her a smile, but Lyandra could see that it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Perhaps he feared what would happen if he was discovered as their friend in the capital.

“It’s my pleasure, Sansa.”

Lyandra spurred the horse into a trot, wondering whether they were riding into a trap. She dearly hoped not, and she prayed to the Seven that she and her sister would live to tell the tale of their flight from King’s Landing.

* * *

Every day, Robb noticed Catelyn grow grimmer. Frost patrolled the camp and howled at nights, mourning for the lost Lyandra. All three girls in the capital…it was something to solemn about, certainly. Samaria tried to help, to her credit. She was a sweet girl, and Catelyn hoped that someday soon she would give Robb an heir. Although Robb made love to her every night, there was still no sign that she was with child.

“Your grace.” Greatjon Umber entered Robb’s tent in a hurry, his cloak swirling his feet. His boots were muddy as he trampled across towards his King. Robb swung around to face him from where he had been going over battle plans – well, attempting to. Tiredness prickled at his eyes, and the shadows seemed to be everywhere.

“Yes?”

“It’s the girls, Lyandra and Sansa.” The words seemed to flood out of Lord Umber’s mouth. “They have arrived here, on horseback. There is no sign of Arya, your grace. They say they do not know where she is.”

Robb was on his feet in seconds, weariness forgotten. His sisters…but how had they managed to escape the capital, and on a horse no less? He strode hastily from the tent, reminding himself that he was a King now and had to keep his composure despite the jubilation bubbling up inside him. He followed Lord Umber across the camp to where Catelyn was holding a shivering Sansa close. The girl appeared pale and wide-eyed.

Robb turned to see Lyandra leaning against the saddle of the horse. She looked quite frail as well, and it looked as though it had been some time since either of the girls had had anything to eat. He crossed over to her and pulled her into his arms, hugging her tight. He was surprised when a slight yelp escaped Lyandra and he drew back, gripping her by the shoulders and looking into her eyes.

“What’s the matter? Did I hurt you?”

“My back,” Lyandra whispered, dropping her eyes to the ground. Robb gazed questioningly at Sansa when the dark-haired continued refusing to meet his gaze. Sansa blanched, examining Lyandra sympathetically.

“Robb, they…they had her _whipped_.” Sansa’s voice was little more than a whisper, but already Robb could feel the anger growing within him. Cersei or Joffrey had ordered the whipping of a sixteen-year-old girl? He had hated the Lannisters before, but it would seem every crime they committed against the Starks just served to harden that loathing.

“Are these your sisters?”

A new voice made Lyandra spin around, to face a slim girl perhaps a year or so older than her with light brown hair and brown eyes. Robb smiled tightly and took the girl’s hand, leading her over. The tenderness of the interaction made Lyandra suspect the truth even before Robb spoke.

“Lyandra, Sansa, this is my wife, Samaria of House Frey.”

“I’ve heard many good things about you both,” Samaria said, observing both girls. Lyandra thought she seemed genuine enough. It was good that Robb had finally decided to marry a Frey, as no doubt they would be growing restless about him keeping his promise.

“You two must be exhausted.” Catelyn wrapped a protective arm around Sansa’s shoulders, but Robb glanced sharply across at his mother before turning back to Lyandra. There was a hardness in his eyes, a coldness to rival winter itself.

“Show me the marks.”

“Robb,” Catelyn snapped, glaring at him. Clearly she thought he should be more delicate about the matter. However, Lyandra turned and removed her cloak, brushing her dark hair over her shoulder. Tentatively, Robb undid the back of his sister’s dress slightly, just enough so that he could see the scars that marred her back.

“They will pay for this,” Robb said in a low voice as Catelyn nudged him aside and tied Lyandra’s dress back up. His hands clenched into tight fists, and he was filled with disgust. He had known that the Lannisters were cruel…but he should have known after Jaime had pushed Bran from a tower, atrocities such whipping young girls were not beyond them.

“Revenge can wait,” Catelyn informed her son, gripping his arm. “We have the girls back. For now, we need to work on finding Arya, and defeating the Lannisters in battle. Then, we will have our vengeance. Not before.”

* * *

After everything that had happened in the capital, all that Lyandra wanted was space to breathe. She had ruffled Frost’s fur, smiling as the direwolf licked happily at her face, before forsaking the warmth of her tent for the cool night. She sat on the grass and watched the flickering torches of the campsite and ruminated on all that had occurred. Her back stung just thinking about the whip.

The true enigma was Petyr Baelish. Lyandra had not told her mother that he had been the one to help them from King’s Landing, but she knew it was only a matter of time before the issue arose again. She took a deep breath, smiling as she watched it emanate from her mouth in a fine mist.

She had thought that she was alone, but the sound of footsteps crunching through dry bush alerted her to the fact that she most certainly was not. Lyandra turned and glanced over her shoulder, but in the darkness, it was hard to make out a face. She expected perhaps Robb, so was therefore disappointed when she noticed that it was Theon who had come after her. How she had hoped to be alone.

“Why are you all by yourself?” Theon asked of her, examining her with a slight frown.

Lyandra glanced across at him. Why was he concerned? After the capital, she just needed time to think – and by herself. Did Theon not understand that he was intruding on her peace? She heaved a weary sigh and turned to face him, her expression resigned.

“Theon, look. I don’t mean to be rude, but I really came out on my own for a reason. I need to think things through. About Father. About King’s Landing.”

Lyandra turned away and breathed in the cold night air, but tensed a moment later when a pair of arms snaked around her waist. Theon’s breath was hot on her neck, a contrast to the chilly night, but she knew which she would have preferred. Suddenly, alarm bells were ringing in Lyandra’s mind.

“You don’t have to think at all,” he told her huskily.

Lyandra twisted out of his grasp in irritation, whirling to face him with eyes blazing like blue fire. Theon just stood there and smirked like the whole world was a personal joke that only he understood. Far from distancing himself, Theon actually moved closer to Lyandra as she took a step away from him.

“Theon, I have no wish for the sort of comfort you would offer.”

“You do,” Theon insisted smugly, hooking an arm around Lyandra’s waist and pressing her body to his. “You just don’t know it yet.”

A sick feeling twisted at the bottom of Lyandra’s stomach, a cold dread that gnawed away at her from the inside. She pushed Theon in the chest, but he only laughed at her. She focused on everything Jon had taught her and remembered Jaime’s advice from Winterfell. She sucked in a deep breath, drawing up her leg and kneeing Theon in the groin. She ripped herself free of his detested grasp and gathered her skirts, breaking into a run.

Lyandra had not gone more than five steps before she was slammed to the ground. Her head spun and the stars in the night sky overhead flickered in and out of focus, like candles snuffed out and then lit up again. Theon loomed over her, his heavy weight pressing down on her as he straddled her, his expression infuriated.

“Stupid little bitch,” he growled at her, “Fine. If you’re going to be like that, I should teach you a lesson. It’s called respecting your elders.”

Theon’s hands ripped at the front of her dress, and Lyandra suddenly felt like she was drowning in an ocean of panic, unable to surface. She lashed out, trying to claw his hands away, to slap him, but he easily pinned her wrists above her head with one hand. His free hand slithered in under the torn fabric of her bodice and he roughly groped her breast.

A piercing scream escaped Lyandra’s mouth. She didn’t quite know if she was trying to alert someone, or if it was a sound of pure helplessness. All she knew was that she was terrified, more so than she had ever been in her life. This was Theon, her brother Robb’s best friend…and he was going to rape her.

Theon’s hand cracked sharply across Lyandra’s cheek, the blow making her head throb even more. She wanted to fight and kick and scream and bite…yet she couldn’t. It was like all the strength had left her body and she was pinned beneath him, staring up at the cold and uncaring stars. Tears blurred Lyandra’s vision, but she would not sob. She refused to fall that far.

“Stop fighting,” Theon hissed, sounding annoyed at her attempts to struggle, “Make it easier for yourself and lie still. You might actually enjoy it.”

Lyandra spat in his face, earning her another stinging slap. She lay limp then, and closed her eyes and her mind to it all. Theon’s hand snaked up her legs, pushing her dress up her thighs, and Lyandra felt sudden terror seize her in its iron grasp as she heard the clinking of his belt as he unbuckled it.

That was when Lyandra made a last, desperate attempt. She slammed her head forward with all the force she could muster, and there was a sharp crack and a yelped curse of pain as Theon rolled off her. He clutched at his nose, groaning, and Lyandra could see – with some vicious satisfaction – the blood trickling between his fingers.

Lyandra hastened to push down her skirts and hold her bodice closed as she sat up, her head whirling. Theon was still muttering curses and holding his broken nose. She staggered to her feet, her knees shaking as though they wouldn’t support her anymore. She didn’t think, she didn’t turn to hit Theon again. She just ran, back towards the warm comfort of her tent where Frost would keep her safe.


End file.
